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V.  3 


Selected  works  of  Rudyard  Kipling. 


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Drawn  by  C.  D.  Graves. 


"  '  T have  seen.    lam  clay  in  the  lohite  man's  hands.    What  does  the  presence  dof  " 

Thk  REcnuDESPEKCE  OF  Imray— Vol.  iii.,  p.  43. 


SELECTED  WORKS 


OF 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 


MINE   OWN  PEOPLE 

THE   COURTING   OF  DINAH  SHADD 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

AMERICAN  NOTES 
UNDER    THE  DEODARS 

AND  OTHER  TALES 

DEPARTMENTAL  DITTIES 
BARRACK-ROOM  BALLADS 
AND   OTHER    VERSES 


Volume  Three 


NEW  YORK 

PETER   FENELON  COLLIER  &  SON 

MCM 


3 

V.3 


CONTENTS 


VOLUME    THREE 


MINE    OWN    PEOPLE 

Rudyard  Kjpling,  by  A.  Lang „ . , S 

Introduction,  by  Henry  James 10 

Bimi , 21 

Namgay  Doola 27 

The  Recrudescence  of  Lnray 38 

Moti  Guj — Mutineer , . . . » 51 

The  Mutiny  of  the  Mavericks ts8 

At  the  End  of  the  Passage 78 

The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney 100 

The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd , . , , . .  126 

The  Man  Who  Was .•  151 

A  Conference  of  the  Powers ,  167 

On  Greenhow  Hill. .  182 

Without  Benefit  of  Clergy 201 


AMERICAN    NOTES 

Rudyard  Kipling  at  the  Golden  Gate 224 

American  Politics  Turned  Inside  Out , . . . .  241 

Rudj^ard  Kipling's  American  Catches 254 

Rudyard  Kipling  astride  the  Clouds 204 

*  Poor  Chicago  Kipling-struck , 275 

Uncle  Sam's  Army  under  Kipling  Giuis o 286 

Kipling's  View  of  Our  Defenseless  Coasts 292 

Kipling  brought  to  Book 303 

Andrew  Lang  on  Kipling 305 

o        UNDER  THE  DEODARS  AND  OTHER  TALES 

>  The  Education  of  Otis  Yeere ,  310 

—At  the  Pit's  Mouth 333 

••  A  Wayside  Comedy » , .  340 

S  The  Hill  of  Illusion 352 

«^  Second-rate  Woman. . , 368 

>  3 


^oi)tei)ts 


DEPARTMENTAL   DITTIES,  BARRACK-ROOM 
BALLADS,    AND    OTHER    VERSES 

DEPARTMENTAL   DITTIES 


Prelude 384 

General  Summary 385 

Army  Headquarters 386 

Study  of  an  Elevation,  in  In- 
dian Ink 387 

A  Legend  of  the  Foreign  Office  388 

The  Story  of  Uriah 389 

The  Post  that  Fitted 390 


Public  Waste 392 

Delilah  , 393 

What  Happened 395 

Pink  Dominoes 396 

The  Man  who  could  Write 398 

Municipal 399 

A  Code  of  Morals 401 

The  Jjast  Department. 403 


BARRACK-ROOM    BALLADS 


Danny  Deever 404 

"Tommy" 405 

"Fuzzy  Wuzzy" 407 

Oonts! 409 

Loot 410 

Soldier,  Soldier 413 

The  Sons  of  the  Widow 414 


Troopin' 416 

Gunga  Din 417 

Mandalay 420 

The  Young  British  Soldier 422 

Screw-Guns 424 

Belts 426 


OTHER    VERSES 


To  the  Unknown  Goddess. . . 
The  Rupaiyat  of  Omar  Kal'vin  429 

La  Nuit  Blanche 430 

My  Rival 433 

The  Lovers'  Litany 434 

A  Ballad  of  Burial 436 

Divided  Destinies 437 

The  Masque  of  Plenty 438 

The  Mare's  Nest 443 

Possibilities 444 

Christmas  in  India 446 

Pagett,  M.P, 447 

The  Song  of  the  Women 449 

A  Ballade  of  Jakko  Hill 450 

The  Plea  of  the  Simla  Danc- 
ers    451 

The  Ballad  of  Fisher's  Board- 

ing-House 453 

"As  the  Bell  Clinks" 456 

An  Old  Song 458 

Certain  Maxims  of  Hafiz. .....   460 


The    Grave    of   the   Hundred 

Head 468 

The  Moon  of  Other  DaySc 466 

The  Overland  Mail 467 

What  the  People  said 468 

The  Undertaker's  Horse 470 

The  Fall  of  Jock  Gillespie 471 

Arithmetic  on  the  Frontier. . .  473 

One  Viceroy  Resigns 474 

The  Betrothed 479 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities 482 

Giffen's  Debt 484 

In  Springtime 486 

Two  Months 487 

The  Galley-Slave 488 

L'Envoi..' 491 

The  Conundrum  of  the  Work- 
shops    492 

The  Explanation 494 

The  Gift  of  the  Sea 494 

Evarra  and  his  Gods. .....  c .. .  49? 


Some  years  ago,  among  the  books  which  came  in  bat- 
talions to  a  reviewer,  I  found  an  odd  little  volume  of  verses, 
bound  like  an  official  report.  Where  is  that  volume  now?  It 
has  gone  the  way  of  first  editions ;  a  thing  to  regret,  as  it 
was  an  example  of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's ''Departmental 
Ditties."  They  were  light  pieces  of  rhyme  on  Anglo-Indian 
life  and  society ;  they  were  lively,  sad,  cynical,  and  very  un- 
like most  poetry,  Mr.  Kipling's  name  was  new  to  me,  and, 
much  as  I  had  admired  his  verses,  I  heard  no  more  of  him 
till  I  received  "The  Story  of  the  Gadsbys,"  "Studies  in  Black 
and  White,"  and  "Under  the  Deodars."  They  were  aU  un- 
pretending Httle  tomes,  clad  in  gray  paper,  and  published  in 
India.  Then,  on  reading  them,  one  saw  that  a  new  star 
in  Hterature  had  swum  into  one's  ken.  Here  was  extraor- 
dinary brightness,  brevity,  observation,  humor;  unusual, 
perhaps  unexampled,  knowledge  of  life  in  India—life  of  the 
people,  of  their  white  rulers,  of  men  and  women,  and  of  the 
private  soldiers.  Mr.  Kiphng  had  the  unusual  art  of  telling 
^  a  short  story ;  he  cut  it  down  almost  to  anecdote  in  his  hatred 
of  the  prolix  and  the  superfluous.  This  is  always  a  rare  art 
in  English ;  in  French  it  is  more  common,  and  is  made  far 
more  welcome. 

All  this  time  the  European  Enghsh  knew  little  or  noth- 
ing of  Mr.  KipUng.  He  was  praised  in  reviews ;  his  books 
were  the  treasures  of  a  few  people  who  Hke  to  find  a  fresh 
thing  that  is  good.  Then,  in  autumn,  1889,  Mr.  Kiphng 
came  to  England,  paying  a  long  visit  to  America  on  his 
way.     The  few  facts  that  need  be  told  about  his  past  career 

(5) 


6  F^udyard  l^iplii?^ 

were  soon  known.  Mr.  Kipling  was  born  at  Bombay,  on 
December  30,  1865.  He  is,  therefore,  still  a  very  young 
man ;  at  his  age  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  had  only  shown 
his  genius  to  the  world  in  a  few  admirable  magazine  articles. 
Born  in  India,  the  son  of  the  head  of  the  School  of  Art  at 
Lahore,  Mr.  Kipling  was  educated  at  "Westward  Ho,"  the 
watering-place  and  home  of  the  Golfes,  named  after  Canon 
Kingsley's  novel.  He  returned  to  India  early,  and  how  early 
he  began  to  write  articles,  tales,  and  verses  in  the  Indian 
newspapers  I  do  not  know.  His  little  romances  first  ap- 
peared in  the  journals  of  our  Oriental  dependency,  and  were 
part  of  his  regular  newspaper  work.  The  largest  collections, 
"Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,"  in  the  dignity  of  a  cloth  cover, 
can  occasionally  be  purchased  from  a  bookseller  of  unusual 
intelligence.  But,  as  the  books  came  out  in  India,  it  has 
hitherto  been  difficult  to  get  them;  they  have  been  "very 
rare."  Doubtless  these  difficulties  are  being  removed,  and 
perhaps  all  Mr.  Kipling's  works  will  become  as  accessible 
as  those  of  other  British  authors.  It  is  not  my  purpose  to 
write  a  biography  of  Mr,  Kipling,  nor  to  describe  him  "at 
home."  He  is  fond  of  horses  and  of  fishing;  he  is  not  fond 
of  psychology  nor  of  M.  Paul  Bourget.  His  political  opin- 
ions are  of  the  kind  which  were  English  in  old  days  before 
Mr.  Gladstone,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  he  has  ever  at- 
tempted to  overthrow  the  Christian  religion,  nor  to  supply 
his  own  mixture,  at  reasonable  charges,  as  a  substitute.  He 
is  thus,  though  young  and  popular,  a  little  belated  in  our 
intelligent  and  advanced  generation. 

Enough,  or  more  than  enough,  of  personal  description. 
As  to  his  writings,  Mr.  Kipling  appears  to  myself  to  possess 
a  very  original  genius,  nor  is  this  an  original  opinion.  His 
"Plain  Tales"  have  been  called  "The  best  book  ever  written 
on  India,"  by  an  authority  of  very  great  experience  in  life, 
in  government,  and  in  literature.  For  the  first  time" he  has 
shown  English  readers  what  India  is  like ;  how  full  of  in- 
finitely various  life  and  romance.  He  seems  to  have  seen 
and  known,  and  been  able  to  make  real  and  vivid,  the  exist- 


F^udyard  l^iplip<$  7 

ence  of  all  classes  in  that  continent.     For  my  own  part,  I 
least  like  his  tales  about  official  life,  about  flirtations  and 
jobs,  "appointments"  of  all  kinds  at  Simla.     The  descrip- 
tions may  be  very  true;    they  are  not  very  pleasing.     His 
married   flirts,   his   frivolous   ladies,   his   people  who  '*play 
tennis  with  the  Seventh  Commandment,"  are  melancholy, 
and  no  doubt  admonitory  spectacles.     Vice,   in  them,   has 
certainly  not  freed  itself  from  what  is  coarse  and  common. 
Vice  seldom  does,  and  it  is  not  Mr.  Kipling's  fault,  but  the 
fault  of  his  characters,  that  one  turns  from  their  feverish 
society,    their   "smartness,"    and    their    slang.      There   are 
touching  passages  in  "The  Story  of  the  Gadsbys,"  but  it 
has  the  defect  of  reminding  one  of  "Gyp,"  an  author  whom 
Mr.  Kipling  may  never  have  read,  for  all  that  I  know.     To 
my  own  taste — after  all,  it  is  a  question  of  taste — his  tales 
of  native  life  in  many  ranks,  castes,  religions,  and  nations 
are  his  best.     There  is  a  wonderful  horror,  mixed  with  vul- 
gar magic,  in  the  story  called  "The  House  of  Suddhoo." 
The   confessions  of  an  opium-smoker,  in  ' '  The  Gate  of  a 
Hundred  Sorrows,"  defeat  De  Quincey  on  his  own  ground. 
"On  the  City  Wall"  is  a  romance  that  is  real,  and  an  amaz- 
ing glimpse  into  the  true  mind  of  Orientals,  hidden  from  us 
often  by  a  veneer  of  Western  culture.   -  "The  Strange  Ride 
of  Morrowbie  Jukes,"  who  fell  into  a  village  of  thieves,  who 
should  be  dead   but  yet  live,  is  a  nightmare  more  perfect 
and  terrible,  I  think,  than  anything  of  Edgar  Poe's.     There 
is  a  scene  of  passion  at  a  midnight  picnic,  and  in  a  nocturnal 
dust-storm,  which  is  purely  magical,  a  revelation  of  things 
possible.     The  story  of  a  little  Indian  child  is  a  mere  sketch, 
but  it  brings  tears  even  into  critical  eyes.     There  is  an  as- 
tonishing variety  in  Mr.  Kipling's  powers.     In  the  "Phan- 
tom 'Rickshaw,"  his  tale  of  the  dead  wife's  appointment 
with  her  husband  moves  one  like  a  vivid  dream  of  the  be- 
loved dead.     Then  we  have  a  handsome  piece  of  witchery  in 
the  "Bisara  of  Pooree,"  where  the  impossible  becomes   real 
to  fancy.     From  these  tales  it  is  a  long  step  to  the  military 
humors  of  "Soldiers  Three,"  the  magnificent,  daring,  YSbin^ 


8  F^adyard  \{\pliT)<^ 

and  generous  Irish  Hercules,  Mulvaney;  the  Httle  Cockney 
who  shoots  so  well  and  has  a  madness  of  homesickness ;  Orth- 
eris,  and  the  large  Yorkshireman  who  is  their  comrade. 
"How  They  Took  the  Town  of  Lungtungpen"  and  *'With 
the  Rear  Guard"  are  tales  of  as  good  fighting  as  ever  was 
transcribed.  Every  soldier  should  inspire  himself  with  their 
gay  daring  and  masterful  adventure.  The  legend  of  the 
wanderer,  with  the  head  of  his  crushed  and  dead  comrade  in 
his  wallet,  proves  that  Mr.  Kipling  could  escel  in  the  wildest 
myths  of  adventure,  if  he  cared.  He  has  comedy,  tragedy, 
farce  in  his  repertory,  all  in  small  parcels.  He  has  seen  a 
perfect  Odyssey  of  strange  experience,  has  known  or  has 
divined  the  most  unheard-of  dealings  of  men  with  men,  and 
everywhere  has  found  them  very  human.  The  last  story  in 
*' Plain  Tales"  promises,  not  a  conclusion,  but  a  beginning, 
to  the  legend  of  an  English  scholar  sunk  in  drink,  in  Islam, 
and  the  dirt  of  a  bazaar.  All  this  would  be  entirely  new, 
and  we  may  trust  that  Mr.  Kipling  will  give  us  a  longer  nar- 
rative on  the  subject.  Whether  he  can  write  a  long  novel, 
or  a  novel,  rather,  of  the  usual  proportions,  remains  to  be 
seen.  Very  few  men  have  excelled  in  both  forms  of  the  art 
fictitious,  and  he  certainly  excels  in  one.  At  a  passage,  a 
picture,  an  incident,  a  character,  he  is  already,  perhaps,  all 
but  unrivaled  among  his  contemporaries.  Can  he  weave 
many  of  these  into  a  consistent  fable?  This  remains  to  be 
tried. 

I  do  not  anticipate  for  Mr.  Kipling  a  very  popular  popu- 
larity. He  does  not  compete  with  Miss  Braddon  or  Mr.  E. 
P.  Roe.  His  favorite  subjects  are  too  remote  and  unfamiliar 
for  a  world  that  likes  to  be  amused  with  matters  near  home 
and  passions  that  do  not  stray  far  from  the  drawing-room  or 
the  parlor.  In  style,  as  has  been  said,  he  has  brevity,  bril- 
liance, selection ;  he  is  always  at  the  center  of  the  interest ; 
he  wastes  no  words,  he  knows  not  padding.  He  can  under- 
stand passion,  and  makes  us  understand  it.  He  has  sym- 
pathies unusually  wide,  and  can  find  the  rare  strange  thing 
in  the  midst  of  the  commonplace.     He  has  energy,  spirit^ 


I^udyard  l^iplip^  9 

vision.  Refinement  he  has  not  in  an  equal  measure ;  per- 
haps he  is  too  abrupt,  too  easily  taken  by  a  piece  of  slang, 
and  one  or  two  little  mannerisms  become  provoking.  It  does 
not  seem,  as  yet,  that  he  very  well  understands,  or  can  write 
very  well  about,  ordinary  English  life.  But  he  has  so  much 
to  say  that  he  might  well  afford  to  leave  the  ordinary  to 
other  writers.  He  has  the  alacrity  of  the  French  intellect, 
and  often  displays  its  literary  moderation  and  reserve.  One 
may  overestimate  what  is  so  new,  what  is  so  undeniably  rich 
in  many  promises.  This  is  a  natural  tendency  in  the  critic. 
To  myself  Mr.  Kipling  seems  one  of  two,  three,  or  four  young 
men,  and  he  is  far  the  youngest,  who  flash  out  genius  from 
some  unexpected  place,  who  are  not  academic,  nor  children 
of  the  old  literature  of  the  world,  but  of  their  own  works. 
"What  seems  cynical,  flighty,  too  brusque,  and  too  familiar 
in  him  should  mellow  with  years.  I  do  not  beheve  that 
Europe  is  the  place  for  him ;  there  are  three  other  continents 
where  I  can  imagine  that  his  genius  would  find  a  more  ex- 
hilarating air  and  more  congenial  materials.  He  is  an  exotic 
romancer.  His  Muse  needs  the  sun,  the  tramp  of  horses,  the 
clash  of  swoids,  the  jingling  of  bridle-reins;  vast  levels  of 
sand,  thick  forests,  wide-gleaming  rivers,  the  temples  of 
strange  gods.  This,  at  least,  is  a  personal  theory,  which 
may  readily  be  contradicted  by  experience.  But  I  trust  that 
it  may  not  be  contradicted,  and  that  Mr.  Kipling's  youth  and 
adventurous  spirit  may  bring  in  tales  and  sketches  and  bal- 
lads from  many  shores  not  familiar,  from  many  a  home  of 
Pathans,  Kaffirs,  Pawnees,  from  all  natural  men.  He  is  not 
in  tune  with  our  modern  civilization,  whereof  ma^ny  a  heart 
is  sick;  he  is  more  at  home  in  an  Afghan  pass  than  in  the 
Strand.  A.  Lang, 


It  would  b©  difficult  to  answer  the  general  question 
whether  the  books  of  the  world  grow,  as  they  multiply, 
as  much  better  as  one  might  suppose  they  ought,  with  such 
a  lesson  of  wasteful  experiment  spread  perpetually  behind 
them.  There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  in  one  direction  w© 
profit  largely  by  this  education :  whether  or  not  we  have  be- 
come wiser  to  fashion,  we  have  certainly  become  keener  to 
enjoy.  We  have  acquired  the  sense  of  a  particular  quality 
which  is  precious  beyond  all  others — so  precious  as  to  make 
us  wonder  where,  at  such  a  rate,  our  posterity  will  look  for 
it,  and  how  they  will  pay  for  it.  After  tasting  many  essences 
we  find  freshness  the  sweetest  of  all.  We  yearn  for  it,  we 
watch  for  it  and  lie  in  wait  for  it,  and  when  we  catch  it  on 
the  wing  (it  flits  by  so  fast)  we  celebrate  our  capture  with 
extravagance.  We  feel  that  after  so  much  has  come  and 
gone  it  is  more  and  more  of  a  feat  and  a  tour  de  force  to  be 
fresh.  The  tormenting  part  of  the  phenomenon  is  that,  in 
any  particular  key,  it  can  happen  but  once — by  a  sad  failure 
of  the  law  that  inculcates  the  repetition  of  goodness.  It  is 
terribly  a  matter  of  accident ;  emulation  and  imitation  have 
a  fatal  eSect  upon  it.  It  is  easy  to  see,  therefore,  what  im- 
portance the  epicure  may  attach  to  the  brief  moment  of  its 
bloom.     While  that  lasts  we  all  are  epicures. 

This  helps  to  explain,  I  think,  the  unmistakable  intensity 
of  the  general  relish  for  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling.  His  bloom 
lasts,  from  month  to  month,  almost  surprisingly — by  which 
I  mean  that  he  has  not  worn  out  even  by  active  exercise  the 
particular  property  that  made  us  all,  more  than  a  year  ago, 
(10) 


iptrodaetiop  11 

so  precipitately  drop  everything  else  to  attend  to  him.  He 
has  many  others  which  he  will  doubtless  always  keep ;  but  a 
part  of  the  potency  attaching  to  his  freshness,  what  makes 
it  as  exciting  as  a  drawing  of  lots,  is  our  instinctive  convic- 
tion that  he  cannot,  in  the  nature  of  things,  keep  that;  so 
that  our  enjoyment  of  him,  so  long  as  the  miracle  is  still 
wrought,  has  both  the  charm  of  confidence  and  the  charm  of 
suspense.  And  then  there  is  the  further  charm,  with  Mr, 
Kipling,  that  this  same  freshness  is  such  a  very  strange 
affair  of  its  kind — so  mixed  and  various  and  cynical,  and,  in 
certain  lights,  so  contradictory  of  itself.  The  extreme  re- 
centness  of  his  inspiration  is  as  enviable  as  the  tale  is  start- 
ling that  his  productions  tell  of  his  being  at  home,  domesti- 
cated and  initiated,  in  this  wicked  and  weary  world.  At 
times  he  strikes  us  as  shockingly  precocious,  at  others  as 
serenely  wise.  On  the  whole,  he  presents  himself  as  a 
strangely  clever  youth  who  has  stolen  the  formidable  mask 
of  maturity  and  rushes  about,  making  people  jump  with  the 
deep  sounds,  the  sportive  exaggerations  of  tone,  that  issue 
from  its  painted  lips.  He  has  this  mark  of  a  real  vocation, 
that  different  spectators  may  like  him— must  like  him,  I 
should  almost  say — for  different  things;  and  this  refinement 
of  attraction,  that  to  those  who  reflect  even  upon  their  pleas- 
ures he  has  as  much  to  say  as  to  those  who  never  reflect  upon 
anything.  Indeed  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  room  for  sur- 
prise in  the  fact  that,  being  so  much  the  sort  of  figure  that 
the  hardened  critic  likes  to  meet,  he  should  also  be  the  sort 
of  figure  that  inspires  the  multitude  with  confidence — for  a 
complicated  air  is,  in  general,  the  last  thing  that  does  this. 

By  the  critic  who  likes  to  meet  such  a  bristling  advent- 
urer as  Mr.  Kipling  I  mean,  of  course,  the  critic  for  whom 
the  happy  accident  of  character,  whatever  form  it  may  take, 
is  more  of  a  bribe  to  interest  than  the  promise  of  some  char- 
acter cherished  in  theory — the  appearance  of  justifying  some 
foregone  conclusion  as  to  what  a  writer  or  a  book  "ought," 
in  the  Ruskinian  sense,  to  be ;  the  critic,  in  a  word,  who  has, 
a  priori,  no  rule  for  a  literary  production  but  that  it  shall 


12  Ii)troduetioi? 

have  genuine  life  Such  a  critic  (he  gets  much  more  out  of 
his  opportunities,  I  think,  than  the  other  sort)  likes  a  writer 
exactly  in  proportion  as  he  is  a  challenge,  an  appeal  to  inter- 
pretation, intelligence,  ingenuity,  to  what  is  elastic  in  the 
critical  mind — in  proportion  indeed  as  he  may  be  a  negation 
of  things  familiar  and  taken  for  granted.  He  feels  in  this 
case  how  much  more  play  and  sensation  there  is  for  himself. 

Mr.  Kipling,  then,  has  the  character  that  furnishes  plenty 
of  play  and  of  Yicarious  experience  — that  makes  any  percep- 
tive reader  foresee  a  rare  luxury.  He  has  the  great  merit 
of  being  a  compact  and  convenient  illustration  of  the  surest 
source  of  interest  in  any  painter  of  life — ^that  of  having  an 
identity  as  marked  as  a  window-frame.  He  is  one  of  the 
illustrations,  taken  near  at  hand,  that  help  to  clear  up  the 
vexed  question  in  the  novel  or  the  tale,  of  kinds,  camps, 
schools,  distinctions,  the  right  way  and  the  wrong  way;  so 
very  positively  does  he  contribute  to  the  showing  that  there 
are  just  as  many  kinds,  as  many  ways,  as  many  forms  and 
degrees  of  the  *' right,"  as  there  are  personal  points  in  view. 
It  is  the  blessing  of  the  art  he  practices  that  it  is  made  up  of 
experience  conditioned,  infinitely,  in  this  personal  way — the 
sum  of  the  f eehng  of  life  as  reproduced  by  innumerable  nat- 
ures; natures  that  feel  through  all  their  differences,  testify 
through  their  diversities.  These  differences,  which  make 
the  identity,  are  of  the  individual ;  they  form  the  channel  by 
which  life  flows  through  him,  and  how  much  he  is  able  to 
give  us  of  life — ^in  other  words,  how  much  he  appeals  to  us — 
depends  on  whether  they  form  it  solidly. 

This  hardness  of  the  conduit,  cemented  with  a  rare  assur- 
ance, is  perhaps  the  most  striking  idiosyncrasy  of  Mr.  Kip- 
ling; and  what  makes  it  more  remarkable  is  that  incident  of 
his  extreme  youth  which,  if  we  talk  about  him  at  all,  we 
cannot  affect  to  ignore.  I  cannot  pretend  to  give  a  biography 
or  a  chronology  of  the  author  of  ^'Soldiers  Three,"'  but  I 
cannot  overlook  the  general,  the  importunate  fact  that,  con- 
fidently as  he  has  caught  the  trick  and  habit  of  this  sophisti- 
cated world,  he  has  not  been  long  of  it.     His  extreme  youth 


fptroduGtroi?  13 

is  indeed  what  I  may  call  his  window-bar — ^the  support  on 
which  he  somewhat  rowdily  leans  while  he  looks  down  at  the 
human  scene  with  his  pipe  in  his  teeth;  just  as  his  other  con- 
ditions (to  mention  only  some  of  them),  are  his  prodigious 
facility,  which  is  only  less  remarkable  than  his  stiff  selection; 
his  unabashed  temperament,  his  flexible  talent,  his  smoking- 
room  manner,  his  familiar  friendship  with  India — established 
so  rapidly,  and  so  completely  under  his  control ;  his  delight 
in  battle,  his  *^  cheek"  about  women — and  indeed  about  men 
and  about  everything;  his  determination  not  to  be  duped,  his 
*' imperial"  fiber,  his  love  of  the  inside  view,  the  private  sol* 
dier  and  the  primitive  man.  I  must  add  further  to  this  list 
of  attractions  the  remarkable  way  in  which  he  makes  us 
aware  that  he  has  been  put  up  to  the  whole  thing  directly  by 
life  (miraculously,  in  his  teens),  and  not  by  the  communica- 
tions of  others.  These  elements,  and  many  more,  constitute 
a  singularly  robust  little  literary  character  (our  use  of  the 
diminutive  is  altogether  a  note  of  endearment  and  enjoyment) 
which,  if  it  has  the  rattle  of  high  spirits  and  is  in  no  degre© 
apologetic  or  shrinking,  yet  offers  a  very  hberai  pledge  in  the 
way  of  good  faith  and  immediate  performance.  Mr.  Kip- 
ling's performance  comes  off  before  the  more  circumspect 
have  time  to  decide  whether  they  like  him  or  not,  and  if  yon 
have  seen  it  once  you  will  be  sure  to  return  to  the  show.  He 
makes  us  prick  up  our  ears  to  the  good  news  that  in  the 
smoking-room  too  there  may  be  artists ;  and  indeed  to  an 
intimation  still  more  refined — that  the  latest  development  of 
the  modern  also  may  be,  most  successfully,  for  the  canny 
artist  to  put  his  victim  off  his  guard  by  imitating  the  amateur 
(superficially,  of  course)  to  the  life. 

These,  then,  are  some  of  the  reasons  why  Mr.  Kipling 
may  be  dear  to  the  analyst  as  well  as,  M,  Renan  says,  to  the 
simple.  The  simple  may  like  him  because  he  is  wonderful 
about  India,  and  India  has  not  been  **done";  while  there  is 
plenty  left  for  the  morbid  reader  in  the  surprises  of  his  skill 
and  the  fioriture  of  his  form,  which  are  so  oddly  independent 
of  any  distinctively  literary  note  in  him,  any  bookish  associa- 


14  Iptroduetfoi) 

tion.  It  is  as  one  of  the  morbid  that  the  writer  of  these 
remarks  (which  doubtless  only  too  shamefully  betray  his 
character)  exposes  himseK  as  most  consentingly  under  the 
spell.  The  freshness  arising  from  a  subject  that — by  a  good 
fortune  I  do  not  mean  to  underestimate — has  never  been 
*'done,"  is  after  all  less  of  an  affair  to  build  upon  than  the 
freshness  residing  in  the  temper  of  the  artist.  Happy  indeed 
is  Mr.  Kipling,  who  can  command  so  much  of  both  kinds. 
It  is  still  as  one  of  the  morbid,  no  doubt — that  is,  as  one  of 
those  who  are  capable  of  sitting  up  all  night  for  a  new  im- 
pression of  talent,  of  scouring  the  trodden  field  for  one  little 
spot  of  green — that  I  find  our  young  author  quite  most  curious 
in  his  air,  and  not  only  in  his  air,  but  in  his  evidently  very 
real  sense,  of  knowing  his  way  about  life.  Curious  in  the 
highest  degree  and  well  worth  attention  is  such  an  idiosyncrasy 
as  this  in  a  young  Anglo-Saxon.  We  meet  it  with  famihar 
frequency  in  the  budding  talents  of  France,  and  it  startles 
and  haunts  us  for  an  hour.  After  an  hour,  however,  the 
mystery  is  apt  to  fade,  for  we  find  that  the  wondrous  initia- 
tion is  not  in  the  least  general,  is  only  exceedingly  special, 
and  is,  even  with  this  limitation,  very  often  rather  conven- 
tional. In  a  word,  it  is  with  the  ladies  that  the  young 
Frenchman  takes  his  ease,  and  more  particularly  with  the 
ladies  selected  expressly  to  make  this  attitude  convincing. 
When  they  have  let  him  off,  the  dimnesses  too  often  encom- 
pass him.  But  for  Mr.  Kiphng  there  are  no  dimnesses  any- 
where, and  if  the  ladies  are  indeed  violently  distinct  they  are 
not  only  strong  notes  in  a  universal  loudness.  This  loudness 
fills  the  ears  of  Mr.  Kipling's  admirers  (it  lacks  sweetness, 
no  doubt,  for  those  who  are  not  of  the  number),  and  there  is 
really  only  one  strain  that  is  absent  from  it — the  voice,  as  it 
were,  of  the  civilized  man ;  in  whom  I  of  course  also  include 
the  civilized  woman.  But  this  is  an  element  that  for  the 
present  one  does  not  miss — every  other  note  is  so  articulate 
and  direct. 

It  is  a  part  of  the  satisfaction  the  author  gives  us  that  he 
can  make  us  speculate  as  to  whether  he  will  be  able  to  com- 


iQtroduetiop  15 

plete  his  picture  altogether  (this  is  as  far  as  we  presume  to  go 
in  meddling  with  the  question  of  his  future)  without  bringing 
in  the  complicated  soul.  On  the  day  he  does  so,  if  he  handles 
it  with  anything  like  the  cleverness  he  has  already  shown, 
the  expectation  of  his  friends  will  take  a  great  bound.  Mean- 
while, at  any  rate,  we  have  Muivaney,  and  Mulvaney  is 
after  all  tolerably  comphcated.  He  is  only  a  six-foot  saturated 
Irish  private,  but  he  is  a  considerable  pledge  of  more  to  come. 
Hasn't  he,  for  that  matter,  the  tongue  of  a  hoarse  siren,  and 
hasn't  he  also  mysteries  and  infinitudes  almost  Carlylese? 
Since  I  am  speaking  of  him  I  may  as  well  say  that,  as  an 
evocation,  he  has  probably  led  captive  those  of  Mr.  KipKng's 
readers  who  have  most  given  up  resistance.  He  is  a  piece  of 
portraiture  of  the  largest,  vividest  kind,  growing  and  grow- 
ing on  the  painter's  hands  without  ever  outgrowing  them. 
I  can't  help  regarding  him,  in  a  certain  sense,  as  Mr.  Kip- 
ling's tutelary  deity — a  landmark  in  the  direction  in  which  it 
is  open  to  him  to  look  furthest.  If  the  author  will  only  go  as 
far  in  this  direction  as  Mulvaney  is  capable  of  taking  him 
(and  the  inimitable  Irishman  is,  like  Voltaire's  Habakkuk, 
capable  de  tout),  he  may  still  discover  a  treasure  and  find  a 
reward  for  the  services  he  has  rendered  the  winner  of  Dinah 
Shadd.  I  hasten  to  add  that  the  truly  appreciative  reader 
should  surely  have  no  quarrel  with  the  primitive  element  in 
Mr.  Kipling's  subject-matter,  or  with  what,  for  want  of  a 
better  name,  I  may  call  his  love  of  low  life.  "What  is  that 
but  essentially  a  part  of  his  freshness?  And  for  what  part  of 
his  freshness  are  we  exactly  more  thankful  than  for  just  this 
smart  jostle  that  he  gives  the  old  stupid  superstition  that  the 
amiability  of  a  story-teUer  is  the  amiability  of  the  people  he 
represents — that  their  vulgarity,  or  depravity,  or  gentility,  or 
fatuity  are  tantamount  to  the  same  qualities  in  the  painter 
itself?  A  blow  from  which,  apparently,  it  will  not  easily 
recover  is  dealt  this  infantine  philosophy  by  Mr.  Howells 
when,  with  the  most  distinguished  dexterity  and  all  the  de- 
jtachment  of  a  master,  he  handles  some  of  the  clumsiest, 
[crudest,  most  human  things  in  life — answering  surely  thereby 


16  Ii>trodiietioi> 

tlie  play-goers  in  the  sixpenny  gallery  who  howl  at  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  villain  when  he  conies  before  the  curtain. 

Nothing  is  more  refreshing  than  this  active,  disinterested 
sense  of  the  real;  it  is  doubtless  the  quality  for  the  want  of 
more  of  which  our  English  and  American  fiction  has  turned 
so  wofully  stale.  We  are  ridden  by  the  old  conventionalities 
of  type  and  small  proprieties  of  observance — by  the  foolish 
baby-formula  (to  put  it  sketchily)  of  the  picture  and  the  sub- 
ject. Mr.  Kipling  has  all  the  air  of  being  disposed  to  lift  the 
whole  business  off  the  nursery  carpet,  and  of  being  perhaps 
even  more  able  than  he  is  disposed.  One  must  hasten  of 
course  to  parenthesize  that  there  is  not,  intrinsically,  a  bit 
more  luminosity  in  treating  of  low  life  and  of  primitive  man 
than  of  those  whom  civilization  has  kneaded  to  a  finer  paste : 
the  only  luminosity  in  either  case  is  in  the  intelligence  with 
which  the  thing  is  done.  But  it  so  happens  that,  among 
ourselves,  the  frank,  capable  outlook,  when  turned  upon  the 
vulgar  majority,  the  coarse,  receding  edges  of  the  social  per- 
spective, borrows  a  charm  from  being  new ;  such  a  charm  as, 
for  instance,  repetition  has  already  despoiled  it  of  among  the 
French— the  hapless  French  who  pay  the  penalty  as  well  as 
enjoy  the  glow  of  living  intellectually  so  much  faster  than 
we.  It  is  the  most  inexorable  part  of  our  fate  that  we  grow 
tired  of  everything,  and  of  course  in  due  time  we  may  grow 
tired  even  of  what  explorers  shall  come  back  to  tell  us  about 
the  great  grimy  condition,  or,  with  unprecedented  items  and 
details,  about  the  gray  middle  state  which  darkens  into  it. 
But  the  explorers,  bless  them !  may  have  a  long  day  before 
that ;  it  is  early  to  trouble  about  reactions,  so  that  we  must 
give  them  the  benefit  of  every  presumption.  We  are  thankful 
for  any  boldness  and  any  sharp  curiosity,  and  that  is  why  we 
are  thankful  for  Mr.  Kipling's  general  spirit  and  for  most  of 
his  excursions. 

Many  of  these,  certainly,  are  into  a  region  not  to  be-  desig- 
nated as  superficially  dim,  though  indeed  the  author  always 
reminds  us  that  India  is  above  all  the  land  of  mystery,  A 
large  part  of  his  high  spirits,  and  of  ours,  comes  doubtless 


ii)troduetroo  17 

from  the  amiisement  of  such  vivid,  heterogeneous  material, 
from  the  irresistible  magic  of  scorching  suns,  subject  empires, 
uncanny  rehgions,  uneasy  garrisons  and  smothered-up  women 
— from  heat  and  color  and  danger  and  dust,  India  is  a 
poii:entous  image,  and  we  are  duly  awed  by  the  familiarities 
it  undergoes  at  Mr.  Kipling's  hand  and  by  the  fine  impunity j 
the  sort  of  fortune  that  favors  the  brave,  of  his  want  of  awe. 
An  abject  humility  is  not  his  strong  point,  but  he  gives  us 
something  instead  of  it— vividness  and  drollery,  the  vision 
and  the  thrill  of  naany  things,  the  misery  and  strangeness  of 
most,  the  personal  sense  of  a  hundred  queer  contacts  and 
risks.  And  then  in  the  absence  of  respect  he  has  plenty  of 
knowledge,  and  if  knowledge  should  fail  him  he  would  have 
plenty  of  invention.  Moreover,  if  invention  should  ever  fail 
him,  he  would  still  have  the  lyric  string  and  the  patriotic 
chord,  on  which  he  plays  admirably ;  so  that  it  may  be  said 
he  is  a  man  of  resources.  What  he  gives  us,  above  all,  is  the 
feeling  of  the  English  manner  and  the  English  blood  in  con- 
ditions they  have  made  at  once  so  much  and  so  little  their 
own;  with  manifestations  grotesque  enough  in  some  of  his 
satiric  sketches  and  deeply  impressive  in  some  of  his  anecdotes 
of  individual  responsibility. 

His  Indian  impressions  divide  themselves  into  three 
groups,  one  of  which,  I  think,  very  much  outshines  the 
others.  First  to  be  mentioned  are  the  tales  of  native  life, 
curious  glimpses  of  custom  and  superstition,  dusky  matters 
not  beholden  of  the  many,  for  which  the  author  has  a  remark- 
able  flair.  Then  comes  the  social,  the  Anglo- Indian  episodcj 
the  study  of  administrative  and  military  types,  and  of  the 
wonderful  rattling,  riding  ladies  who,  at  Simla  and  more 
desperate  stations,  look  out  for  husbands  and  lovers;  often, 
it  would  seem,  and  husbands  and  lovers  of  others.  The  most 
brilliant  group  is  devoted  wholly  to  the  common  soldier,  and 
of  this  series  it  appears  to  me  that  too  much  good  is  hardly  to 
be  said.  Here  Mr.  Kipling,  with  all  his  off-handedness,  is  a 
master;  for  we  are  held  not  so  much  by  the  greater  or  less 
oddity  of  the  particular  yam— sometimes  it  is  scarcely  a  yam 


18  Ii)troduGtIoi> 

at  all,  but  something  much  less  artificial — as  by  the  robust 
attitude  of  the  narrator,  who  never  arranges  or  glosses  or 
falsifies,  but  makes  straight  for  the  common  and  the  char- 
acteristic. I  have  mentioned  the  great  esteem  in  which  I 
hold  Mulvaney — surely  a  charming  man  and  one  qualified  to 
adorn  a  higher  sphere.  Mulvaney  is  a  creation  to  be  proud 
of,  and  his  two  comrades  stand  as  firm  on  their  legs.  In  spite 
of  Mulvaney 's  social  possibilities,  they  are  all  three  finished 
brutes ;  but  it  is  precisely  in  the  finish  that  we  delight.  What- 
ever Mr.  Kipling  may  relate  about  them  forever  will  en- 
counter readers  equally  fascinated  and  unable  fully  to  justify 
their  faith. 

Are  not  those  literary  pleasures'  after  all  the  most  intense 
which  are  the  most  perverse  and  whimsical,  and  even  in- 
defensible? There  is  a  logic  in  them  somewhere,  but  it  often 
lies  below  the  plummet  of  criticism.  The  spell  may  be  weak 
in  a  writer  who  has  every  reasonable  and  regular  claim,  and 
it  may  be  irresistible  in  one  who  presents  himself  with  a  style 
corresponding  to  a  bad  hat.  A  good  hat  is  better  than  a  bad 
one,  but  a  conjurer  may  wear  either.  Many  a  reader  will 
never  be  able  to  say  what  secret  human  force  lays  its  hand 
upon  him  when  Private  Ortheris,  having  sworn  '* quietly  into 
the  blue  sky,"  goes  mad  with  homesickness  by  the  yellow 
river  and  raves  for  the  basest  sights  and  sounds  of  London. 
I  can  scarcely  tell  why  I  think  ^'The  Courting  of  Dinah 
Shadd"  a  masterpiece  (though,  indeed,  I  can  make  a  shrewd 
guess  at  one  of  the  reasons),  nor  would  it  be  worth  while 
perhaps  to  attempt  to  defend  the  same  pretension  in  regard 
to  "On  Greenhow  Hill" — much  less  to  trouble  the  tolerant 
reader  of  these  remarks  with  a  statement  of  how  many  more 
performances  in  the  nature  of  "The  End  of  the  Passage" 
(quite  admitting  even  that  they  might  not  represent  Mr. 
Kipling  at  his  best)  I  am  conscious  of  a  latent  relish  for. 
One  might  as  well  admit  while  one  is  about  it  that  one  has 
wept  profusely  over  "The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft,"  the 
history  of  the  "Dutch  courage"  of  two  dreadful  dirty  little 
boys,  who,  in  the  face  of  Afghans  scarcely  more  dreadfuls 


iptrodaetfoi)  19 

saved  the  reputation  of  their  regiment  and  perished,  the  least 
mawkishly  in  the  world,  in  a  squalor  of  battle  incomparably 
expressed.  People  who  know  how  peaceful  they  are  them- 
selves and  have  no  bloodshed  to  reproach  themselves  with 
needn't  scruple  to  mention  the  glamour  that  Mr.  Kipling's  in- 
tense militarism  has  for  them,  and  how  astonishing  and  con- 
tagious they  find  it,  in  spite  of  the  unromantic  complexion  of 
it — the  way  it  bristles  with  all  sorts  of  ugliness  and  techni- 
calities. Perhaps  that  is  why  I  go  all  the  way  even  with 
**The  Gadsbys'' — -the  Gadsbys  were  so  connected  (uncom- 
fortably, it  is  true)  with  the  army.  There  is  fearful  fighting 
—or  a  fearful  danger  of  it — in  '*The  Man  Who  Would  be 
King' ' :  is  that  the  reason  we  are  deeply  affected  by  this  ex- 
traordinary tale?  It  is  one  of  them,  doubtless,  for  Mr.  Kip- 
ling has  many  reasons,  after  all,  on  his  side,  though  they 
don't  equally  call  aloud  to  be  uttered. 

One  more  of  them,  at  any  rate,  I  must  add  to  these  un- 
systematized remarks — it  is  the  one  I  spoke  of  a  shrewd  guess 
at  in  alluding  to  "The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd."  The 
talent  that  produces  such  a  tale  is  a  talent  eminently  in  har- 
mony with  the  short  story,  and  the  short  story  is,  on  our  side 
of  the  Channel  and  of  the  Atlantic,  a  mine  which  will  take 
a  great  deal  "of  working.  Admirable  is  the  clearness  with 
which  Mr.  Kipling  perceives  this — perceives  what  innumer- 
able chances  it  gives,  chances  of  touching  life  in  a  thousand 
different  places,  taking  it  up  in  innumerable  pieces,  each  a 
specimen  and  an  illustration.  In  a  word,  he  appreciates  the 
episode,  and  there  are  signs  to  show  that  this  shrewdness 
will,  in  general,  have  long  innings.  It  will  find  the  detach- 
able, compressible  "case"  an  admirable,  flexible  form;  the 
cultivation  of  which  may  well  add  to  the  mistrust  already 
entertained  by  Mr.  Kiphng,  if  his  manner  does  not  betray 
him,  for  what  is  clumsy  and  tasteless  in  the  time-honored 
practice  of  the  "plot."  It  will  fortify  him  in  the  conviction 
that  the  vivid  picture  has  a  greater  communicative  value  than 
the  Chinese  puzzle.  There  is  little  enough  "plot"  in  such  a 
perfect  little  piece  of  hard  representation  as  "The  End  of  the 


30  Ir>troduel-ioi7 

Passage,"   to   cite   again  only  the  most  saKent  of  twenty 
examples. 

But  I  am  speaking  of  our  author's  future,  which  is  the 
luxury  that  I  meant  to  forbid  myself — precisely  because  the 
subject  is  so  tempting.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  (for 
the  prophet)  so  charming  as  to  prophesy,  and  as  there  is 
nothing  so  inconclusive  the  tendency  should  be  repressed  in 
proportion  as  the  opportunity  is  good.  There  is  a  certain 
want  of  courtesy  to  a  peculiarly  contemporaneous  present 
even  in  speculating,  with  a  dozen  differential  precautions,  on 
the  question  of  what  will  become  in  the  later  hours  of  the  day 
of  a  talent  that  has  got  up  so  early.  Mr.  Kipling's  actual 
performance  is  like  a  tremendous  walk  before  breakfast, 
making  one  welcome  the  idea  of  the  meal,  but  consider  with 
some  alarm  the  hours  still  to  be  traversed.  Yet  if  his  break- 
fast is  all  to  come,  the  indications  are  that  he  will  be  more 
active  than  ever  after  he  has  had  it.  Among  these  indica- 
tions are  the  unflagging  character  of  his  pace  and  the  excel- 
lent form,  as  they  say  in  athletic  circles,  in  which  he  gets 
over  the  ground.  We  don't  detect  him  stumbling;  on  the 
contrary,  he  steps  out  quite  as  briskly  as  at  first,  and  still 
more  firmly.  There  is  something  zealous  and  craftsman-like 
in  him  which  shows  that  he  feels  both  joy  and  responsibility. 
A  whimsical,  wanton  reader,  haunted  by  a  recollection  of  all 
the  good  things  he  has  seen  spoiled;  by  a  sense  of  the  miser- 
able, or,  at  any  rate,  the  inferior,  in  so  many  continuations 
and  endings,  is  almost  capable  of  perverting  poetic  justice  to 
the  idea  that  it  would  be  even  positively  well  for  so  surprising 
a  producer  to  remain  simply  the  fortunate,  suggestive,  un- 
confirmed and  unqualified  representative  of  what  he  has 
actually  done.     We  can  always  refer  to  that. 

Henry  James. 


MINE  OWN   PEOPLE 


BIMI 

The  orang-outang  in  the  big  iron  cage  lashed  to  the  sheep- 
pen  began  the  discussion.  The  night  was  stiflinglj  hot,  and 
as  Hans  Breitmann  and  I  passed  him,  dragging  our  bedding 
to  the  fore-peak  of  the  steamer,  he  roused  himself  and  chat- 
tered obscenely.  He  had  been  caught  somewhere  in  the 
Malayan  Archipelago,  and  was  going  to  England  to  be 
exhibited  at  a  shilling  a  head.  For  four  days  he  had  strug- 
gled, yelled,  and  wrenched  at  the  heavy  iron  bars  of  his  prison 
without  ceasing,  and  had  nearly  slain  a  Lascar  incautious 
enough  to  come  within  reach  of  the  great  hairy  paw. 

* '  It  would  be  well  for  you,  mine  friend,  if  you  was  a  liddle 
seasick,"  said  Hans  Breitmann,  pausing  by  the  cage.  ''You 
haf  too  much  Ego  in  your  Cosmos. " 

The  orang-outang's  arm  slid  out  negligently  from  between 
the  bars.  N"o  one  would  have  believed  that  it  would  make  a 
sudden  snake-hke  rush  at  the  German's  breast.  The  thin 
silk  of  the  sleeping-suit  tore  out :  Hans  stepped  back  uncon 
cernedly,  to  pluck  a  banana  from  a  bunch  hanging  close  to 
one  of  the  boats. 

"Too  much  Ego,"  said  he,  peeling  the  fruit  and  offering 
it  to  the  caged  devil,  who  vfas  rending  the  silk  to  tatters. 

Then  we  laid  out  our  bedding  in  the  bows,  among  the 
sleeping  Lascars,  to  catch  any  breeze  that  the  pace  of  the 
ship  might  give  us.  The  sea  was  like  snioky  oil,  except 
where  it  turned  to  fire  under  our  forefoot  and  whirled  back 
into  the  dark  in  smears  of  dull  flame.     There  was  a  thunder- 

(31) 


g2  TI/orKs  of  F^adyard  I^iplip^ 

storm  some  miles  away :  we  could  see  the  glimmer  of  tlie 
lightning.  The  ship's  cow,  distressed  by  the  heat  and  the 
smell  of  the  ape-beast  in  the  cage,  lowed  unhappily  from  time 
to  time  in  exactly  the  same  key  as  the  lookout  man  at  the 
bows  answered  the  hourly  call  from  the  bridge.  The  tramp- 
ling tune  of  the  engines  was  very  distinct,  and  the  jarring  of 
the  ash  lift,  as  it  was  tipped  into  the  sea,  hurt  the  procession 
of  hushed  noise.  Hans  lay  down  by  my  side  and  lighted  a 
good-night  cigar.  This  was  naturally  the  beginning  of  con- 
versation. He  owned  a  voice  as  soothing  as  the  wash  of  the 
sea,  and  stores  of  experiences  as  vast  as  the  sea  itself;  for 
his  business  in  life  was  to  wander  up  and  down  the  world, 
collecting  orchids  and  wild  beasts  and  ethnological  specimens 
for  German  and  American  dealers,  I  watched  the  glowing- 
end  of  his  cigar  wax  and  wane  in  the  gloom,  as  the  sentences 
rose  and  fell,  till  I  was  nearly  asleep.  The  orang-outang, 
troubled  by  some  dream  of  the  forests  of  his  freedom,  began 
to  yell  like  a  soul  in  purgatory,  and  to  wrench  madly  at  the 
bars  of  the  cage. 

*'If  he  was  out  now  dere  would  not  be  much  of  us  left 
hereabouts,"  said  Hans,  lazily.  '*He  screams  good.  See, 
now,  how  I  shall  tame  him  when  he  stops  himself." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  outcry,  and  from  Hans*  mouth 
came  an  imitation  of  a  snake's  hiss,  so  perfect  that  I  almost 
sprung  to  my  feet.  The  sustained  murderous  sound  ran 
along  the  deck,  and  the  wrenching  at  the  bars  ceased.  The 
orang-outang  was  quaking  in  an  ecstasy  of  pure  terror. 

"Dot  stop  him,"  said  Hans.  "I  learned  dot  trick  in 
Mogoung  Tanjong  when  I  was  collecting  liddle  monkeys  for 
some  peoples  in  Berhn.  Ef6ry  one  in  der  world  is  afraid  of 
der  monkeys — except  der  snake.  So  I  blay  snake  against 
monkey,  and  he  keep  quite  still.  Dere  was  too  much  Ego  in 
his  Cosmos.  Dot  is  der  soul-custom  of  monkeys  Are  yoa 
asleep,  or  will  you  listen,  and  I  will  tell  a  dale  dot  you  shall 
not  pelief?" 

"There's  no  tale  in  the  wide  world  that  I  can't  believe, ^^ 
I  said. 


/T\ipe  0\jjT)  people  23 


if 


'If  you  have  learned  pelief  you  haf  learned  somedings. 
Now  I  shall  try  your  pehef .  Good !  When  I  was  collecting 
dose  liddle  monkeys — ^it  was  in  '79  or  '80,  und  I  was  in  der 
islands  of  der  Archipelago — over  dere  in  der  dark" — he 
pointed  southward  to  New  Guinea  generally — "Mein  Gott! 
I  would  sooner  collect  life  red  devils  than  hddle  monkeys. 
"When  dey  do  not  bite  off  your  thumbs  dey  are  always  dying 
from  nostalgia — home-sick- — for  dey  haf  der  imperfect  soul, 
which  is  midway  arrested  in  defelopment — und  too  much 
Ego.  I  was  dere  for  nearly  a  year,  und  dere  I  found  a  man 
dot  was  called  Bertran.  He  was  a  Frenchman,  und  he  was 
a  goot  man — naturalist  to  the  bone.  Dey  said  he  was  an 
escaped  convict,  but  he  was  a  naturalist,  und  dot  was  enough 
for  me.  He  would  call  all  her  life  beasts  from  der  forest, 
und  dey  would  come.  I  said  he  was  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  in 
a  new  dransmigration  produced,-  und  he  laughed  und  said  he 
haf  never  preach  to  der  fishes.  He  sold  dem  for  tripang— 
beche-de-mer. 

"Und  dot  man,  who  was  king  of  beasts-tamer  men,  he 
had  in  der  house  shush  such  anoder  as  dot  devil-animal  in  der 
cage — ^a  great  orang-outang  dot  thought  he  was  a  man.  H© 
haf  found  him  when  he  was  a  child — der  orang-outang — -und 
he  was  child  and  brother  and  opera  comique  all  round  to 
Bertran.  He  had  his  room  in  dot  house — not  a  cage,  but  a 
room — mit  a  bed  and  sheets,  and  he  would  go  to  bed  and  get 
up  in  der  morning  and  smoke  his  cigar  und  eat  his  dinner 
mit  Bertran,  und  walk  mit  him  hand-in-hand,  which  was 
most  horrible.  Herr  Gott !  I  haf  seen  dot  beast  throw  him- 
self back  in  his  chair  and  laugh  when  Bertran  haf  made  fun 
of  me.  He  was  not  a  beast;  he  was  a  man,  and  he  talked  to 
Bertran,  und  Bertran  comprehended,  for  I  have  seen  dem. 
'Und  he  was  always  politeful  to  me  except  when  I  talk  too 
long  to  Bertran  und  say  nodings  at  all  to  him.  Den  he  would 
pull  me  away — dis  great,  dark  devil,  mit  his  enormous  paws 
— shush  as  if  I  was  a  child.  He  was  not  a  beast,  he  was 
a  man.  Dis  I  saw  pefore  I  know  him  three  months,  und 
Bertran  he  haf  saw  the  same;  and  Bimi,  der  orang-outangs 


24:  WorKs  of  P^udyard  l^iplfp<$ 

haf  understood  us  both,  mit  his  cigar  between  his  big-dog 
teeth  und  der  blue  gum. 

' '  I  was  dere  a  year,  dere  und  at  dere  oder  islands — some- 
dimes  for  monkeys  and  somedimes  for  butterflies  und  orchits. 
One  time  Bertran  says  to  me  dot  he  will  be  married,  because 
he  haf  found  a  girl  dot  was  goot,  and  he  inquire  if  this 
marrying  idea  was  right.  I  would  not  say,  pecause  it  was 
not  me  dot  was  going  to  be  married.  Den  he  go  off  courting 
der  girl — she  was  a  half-caste  French  girl— very  pretty. 
Haf  you  got  a  new  light  for  my  cigar?  Oof!  Very  pretty. 
Only  I  say :  *Haf  you  thought  of  Bimi?  If  he  pulls  me  away 
when  I  talk  to  you,  what  will  he  do  to  your  wife?  He  will 
pull  her  in  pieces.  If  I  was  you,  Bertran,  I  would  gif  my 
wife  for  wedding  present  der  stuff  figure  of  Bimi. '  By  dot 
time  I  had  learned  somedings  about  der  monkey  peoples. 
'Shoot  him?'  says  Bertran.  *He  is  your  beast,'  I  said;  *if  he 
was  mine  he  would  be  shot  now.' 

"Den  I  felt  at  der  back  of  my  neck  der  fingers  of  Bimi. 
Mein  Gott  1  I  tell  you  dot  he  talked  through  dose  fingers. 
It  was  der  deaf-and-dumb  alphabet  all  gomplete.  He  slide 
his  hairy  arm  round  my  neck,  and  he  tilt  up  my  chin  und 
look  into  my  face,  shust  to  see  if  I  understood  his  talk  so  well 
as  he  understood  mine. 

"  'See  now  dere!'  says  Bertran,  'und  you  would  shoot  him 
vv^hile  he  is  cuddling  you?    Dot  is  der  Teuton  ingrate!' 

"But  I  knew  dot  I  had  made  Bimi  a  life's  enemy,  pecause 
his  fingers  haf  talk  murder  through  the  back  of  my  neck. 
Next  dime  I  see  Bimi  dere  was  a  pistol  in  my  belt,  und  he 
touch  it  once,  and  I  open  der  breech  to  show  him  it  was 
loaded.  He  haf  seen  der  Hddle  monkeys  killed  in  der  woods, 
and  he  understood. 

"So  Bertran  he  was  married,  and  he  forgot  clean  about 
Bimi  dot  was  skippin'  alone  on  der  beach  mit  der  half  of  a 
human  soul  in  his  belly.  I  was  see  him  skip,  und  he  took 
a  big  bough  und  thrash  der  sand  till  he  haf  made  a  great 
hole  like  a  grave.  So  I  says  to  Bertran:  'For  any  sakes,  kill 
Bimi.     He  is  mad  mit  der  jealousy.' 


/I\ii?e  Omjt)  people  25 

**Bertran  haf  said:  *He  is  not  mad  at  all.  He  haf  obey 
and  love  my  wife,  und  if  she  speaks  he  will  get  her  slippers, ' 
und  he  looked  at  his  wife  across  der  room.  She  was  a  very 
pretty  girl. 

*'Den  I  said  to  him :  *Dost  thou  pretend  to  know  monkeys 
und  dis  beast  dot  is  lashing  himself  mad  npon  der  sands,  pe- 
cause  you  do  not  talk  to  him?  Shoot  him  when  he  comes  to 
der  house,  for  he  haf  der  light  in  his  eyes  dot  means  killing 
— und  killing.'  Bimi  come  to  der  house,  but  dere  was  no 
light  in  his  eyes.  It  was  all  put  away,  cunning— so  cunning 
—und  he  fetch  der  girl  her  slippers,  and  Bertran  turn  to  me 
und  say:  *Dost  thou  know  him  in  nine  months  more  dan  I 
haf  known  him  in  twelve  years?  Shall  a  child  stab  his  fader? 
I  have  fed  him,  und  he  was  my  child.  Do  not  speak  this 
nonsense  to  my  wife  or  to  me  any  more.* 

"Dot  next  day  Bertran  came  to  my  house  to  help  me 
make  some  wood  cases  for  der  specimens,  und  he  tell  me  dot 
he  haf  left  his  wife  a  liddle  while  mit  Bimi  in  der  garden. 
Den  I  finish  my  cases  quick,  und  I  say:  'Let  us  go  to  your 
house  und  get  a  trink.'  He  laugh  und  say:  'Gome  along, 
dry  mans.' 

"His  wife  was  not  in  der  garden,  und  Bimi  did  not  eome 
when  Bertran  called.  Und  his  wife  did  not  come  when  he 
called,  und  he  knocked  at  her  bedroom  door  und  dot  was 
shut  tight— locked.  Den  he  look  at  me^  und  his  face  was 
white.  I  broke  down  der  door  mit  my  shoulder,  und  der 
thatch  of  der  roof  was  torn  into  a  great  hole,  und  der  sun 
came  in  upon  der  floor.  Haf  you  ever  seen  paper  in  der 
waste-basket,  or  cards  at  whist  on  der  table  scattered?  Dere 
was  no  wife  dot  could  be  seen.  I  tell  you  dere  was  noddings 
in  dot  room  dot  might  be  a  woman.  Dere  was  stuff  on  der 
floor,  und  dot  was  all.  I  looked  at  dese  things  und  I  was 
very  sick ;  but  Bertran  looked  a  liddle  longer  at  what  was 
upon  the  floor  und  der  walls,  und  der  hole  in  der  thatch. 
Den  he  pegan  to  laugh,  soft  and  low,  und  I  knew  und  thank 
Got  dot  he  was  mad.  He  nefer  cried,  he  nefer  prayed.  He 
stood  still  in  der  doorway  und  laugh  to  himself.  Den  he 
Vol.  3.  2 


26  U/or^s  of  l^adyard  l^iplii)^ 

said;  'She  liaf  locked  herself  in  dis  room,  and  he  haf  torn  up 
der  thatch.  Fi  done.  Dot  is  so.  We  will  mend  der  thatch 
und  wait  for  Bimi.     He  will  surely  come.' 

*'I  tell  you  we  waited  ten  days  in  dot  house,  after  der 
room  was  made  into  a  room  again,  and  once  or  twice  we  saw 
Bimi  comin'  a  liddle  way  from  der  woods.  He  was  afraid 
pecause  he  haf  done  wrong.  Bertran  called  him  when  he 
was  come  to  look  on  the  tenth  day,  und  Bimi  come  skipping 
along  der  beach  und  making  noises,  mit  a  long  piece  of  black 
hair  in  his  hands.  Den  Bertran  laugh  and  say,  'jFV  doncP 
shust  as  if  it  was  a  glass  broken  upon  der  table ;  und  Bimi 
come  nearer,  und  Bertran  was  honey -sweet  in  his  voice  and 
laughed  to  himself.  For  three  days  he  made  love  to  Bimi, 
pecause  Bimi  would  not  let  himself  be  touched.  Den  Bimi 
come  to  dinner  at  der  same  table  mit  us,  und  der  hair  on  his 
hands  was  all  black  und  thick  mit — mit  what  had  dried  on 
his  hands.  Bertran  gave  him  sangaree  till  Bimi  was  drunk 
and  stupid,  und  den — 

Hans  paused  to  puff  at  his  cigar. 

*' And  then?"  said  I. 

*'Und  den  Bertran  kill  him  with  his  hands,  und  I  go  for 
a  walk  upon  der  beach.  It  was  Bertran's  own  piziness. 
When  I  come  back  der  ape  he  was  dead,  und  Bertran  he 
was  dying  abof e  him ;  but  still  he  laughed  a  liddle  und  low, 
and  he  was  quite  content.  Now  you  know  der  formula 
of  der  strength  of  der  orang-outang — ^it  is  more  as  seven 
to  one  in  relation  to  man.  ,  But  Bertran,  he  haf  killed 
Bimi  mit  sooch  dings  as  Gott  gif  him.  Dot  was  der 
mericle." 

The  infernal  clamor  in  the  cage  recommenced.  "Aha! 
Dot  friend  of  ours  haf  still  too  much  Ego  in  his  Cosmos. 
Be  quiet,  thou!" 

Hans  hissed  long  and  venomously.  We  could  hear  the 
great  beast  quaking  in  his  cage. 

"But  why  in  the  world  didn't  you  help  Bertran  instead 
of  letting  him  be  killed?"  I  asked. 

"My  friend,"  said  Hans,  composedly  stretching  himself 


/I\ip8  OwT)  people  27 

to  slumber,  *4t  was  not  nice  even  to  mineself  dot  I  should- lir 
after  I  had  seen  dot  room  wit  der  hole  in  der  thatch.  Und 
Bertran,  he  was  her  husband.     Goot-night,  und  sleep  well." 


NAMGAY    DOOLA 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king  who  lived  on  the  road 
to  Thibet,  very  many  miles  in  the  Himalaya  Mountains.  His 
kingdom  was  11,000  feet  above  the  sea,  and  exactly  four  miles 
square,  but  most  of  the  miles  stood  on  end,  owing  to  the  nat- 
ure of  the  country.  His  revenues  were  rather  less  than  £400 
-yearly,  and  they  were  expended  on  the  maintenance  of  one 
elephant  and  a  standing  army  of  five  men.  He  was  tribu- 
tary to  the  Indian  government,  who  allowed  him  certain 
sums  for  keeping  a  section  of  the  Himalaya  Thibet  road  in 
repair.  He  further  increased  his  revenues  by  selling  timber 
to  the  railway  companies,  for  he  would  cut  the  great  deodar 
trees  in  his  own  forest  and  they  fell  thundering  into  the  SutleJ 
Biver  and  were  swept  down  to  the  Plains,  300  miles  away, 
and  became  railway  ties.  Kow  and  again  this  king,  whose 
name  does  not  matter,  would  mount  a  ring-streaked  horse 
and  ride  scores  of  miles  to  Simlatown  to  confer  with  the  Heu- 
tenant-governor  on  matters  of  state,  or  assure  the  viceroy 
that  his  sword  was  at  the  service  of  the  queen-empress.  Then 
the  viceroy  would  cause  a  ruffle  of  drums  to  be  sounded  and 
the  ring-streaked  horse  and  the  cavalry  of  the  state— two 
men  in  tatters — and  the  herald  who  bore  the  Silver  Stick  be- 
fore the  king  would  trot  back  to  their  own  place,  which  was 
between  the  tail  of  a  heaven-climbing  glacier  and  a  dark 
birch  forest. 

Now,  from  such  a  king,  always  remembering  that  he 
possessed  one  veritable  elephant  and  could  count  his  descent 
for  1,200  years,  I  expected,  when  it  was  my  fate  to  wander 
through  his  dominions,  no  m.ore  than  mere  license  to  live. 

The  night  had  closed  in  rain,  and  rolling  clouds  blotted 


2S  U/orKs  of  I^udyard  I^iplir)($ 

out  the  lights  of  the  villages  in  the  valley.  Forty  miles 
av,^ay,  untouched  by  cloud  or  storm,  the  white  shoulder  of 
Dongo  Pa — the  Mountain  of  the  Council  of  the  Gods — upheld 
the  evening  star.  The  monkeys  sung  sorrowfully  to  each 
other  as  they  hunted  for  dry  roots  in  the  fern-draped  trees, 
and  the  last  puff  of  the  day -wind  brought  from  the  unseen 
villages  the  scent  of  damp  wood  smoke,  hot  cakes,  dripping 
undergrowth,  and  rotting  pine-cones.  That  smell  is  the  true 
smell  of  the  Himalayas,  and  if  it  once  gets  into  the  blood  of 
a  man  he  will,  at  the  last,  forgetting  everything  else,  return 
to  the  Hills  to  die.  The  clouds  closed  and  the  smell  went 
away,  and  there  remained  nothing  in  all  the  world  except 
chilling  white  mists  and  the  boom  of  the  Sutlej  River. 

A  fat-tailed  sheep,  who  did  not  want  to  die,  bleated  la-, 
mentably  at  my  tent-door.  He  was  scuffling  with  the  prime 
minister  and  the  director-general  of  public  education,  and  he 
was  a  royal  gift  to  me  and  my  camp  servants.  I  expressed 
my  thanks  suitably  and  inquired  if  I  might  have  audience  of 
the  king.  The  prime  minister  readjusted  his  turban — it  had 
fallen  off  in  the  struggle- — and  assured  me  that  the  king  would 
be  very  pleased  to  see  me.  Therefore  I  dispatched  two  bot- 
tles as  a  foretaste,  and  when  the  sheep  had  entered  upon  an- 
other incarnation,  climbed  up  to  the  king's  palace  through 
the  wet.  He  had  sent  his  army  to  escort  me,  but  it  stayed 
to  talk  with  my  cook.  Soldiers  are  very  much  alike  all  the 
world  over. 

The  palace  was  a  four-roomed,  whitewashed  mud-and- 
timber  house,  the  finest  in  all  the  Hills  for  a  day's  journey. 
The  king  was  dressed  in  a  purple  velvet  jacket,  white  muslin 
trousers,  and  a  saffron-yellow  turban  of  price.  He  gave  me 
audience  in  a  little  carpeted  room  opening  off  the  palace 
courtyard,  which  was  occupied  by  the  elephant  of  state. 
The  great  beast  was  sheeted  and  anchored  from  trunk  to 
tail,  and  the  curve  of  his  back  stood  out  against  the  sky.  line. 

The  prime  minister  and  the  director-general  of  public  in- 
struction were  present  to  introduce  me ;  but  all  the  court  had 
been  dismissed  lest  the  two  bottles  aforesaid  should  corrupt 


/I\ir?e  Omjt)  people  29 

their  morals.  The  king  cast  a  wreath  of  heavy,  scented 
flowers  round  my  neck  as  I  bowed,  and  inquired  how  my 
honored  presence  had  the  fehcity  to  be.  I  said  that  through 
seeing  his  auspicious  countenance  the  mists  of  the  night  had 
turned  into  sunshine,  and  that  by  reason  of  his  beneficent 
sheep  his  good  deeds  would  be  remembered  by  the  gods.  He 
said  that  since  I  had  set  my  magnificent  foot  in  his  kingdom 
the  crops  would  probably  yield  seventy  per  cent  more  than 
the  average.  I  said  that  the  fame  of  the  king  had  reached 
to  the  four  comers  of  the  earth,  and  that  the  nations  gnashed 
their  teeth  when  they  heard  daily  of  the  glory  of  his  realm 
and  the  wisdom  of  his  moon-like  prime  minister  and  lotas- 
eyed  director-general  of  pubHc  education. 

Then  we  sat  down  on  clean  white  cushions,  and  I  was  at 
the  king's  right  hand.  Three  minutes  later  he  was  telling 
me  that  the  condition  of  the  maize  crop  was  something  dis- 
graceful, and  that  the  railway  companies  would  not  pay  hiia 
enough  for  his  timber.  The  talk  shifted  to  and  fro  with  the 
bottles.  We  discussed  very  many  quaint  things,  and  the 
king  became  confidential  on  the  subject  of  government  gen- 
erally. Most  of  all  he  dwelt  on  the  shortcomings  of  one  of 
his  subjects,  who,  from  what  I  could  gather,  had  been  para 
lyzing  the  executive. 

"In  the  old  days,"  said  the  king,  '*I  could  have  ordered 
the  elephant  yonder  to  trample  him  to  death.  !Now  I  must 
e'en  send  him  seventy  miles  across  the  hiUs  to  be  tried,  and 
his  keep  for  that  time  would  be  upon  the  state.  And  th@ 
elephant  eats  everything." 

"What  be  the  man's  crimes.  Rajah  Sahib?"  said  I. 

"First,  he  is  an  ^outlander,'  and  no  man  of  mine  own 
people.  Secondly,  since  of  my  favor  I  gave  him  land  upon 
his  coming,  he  refuses  to  pay  revenue.  Am  I  not  the  lord 
of  the  earth,  above  and  below — entitled  by  right  and  custom 
to  one-eighth  of  the  crop?  Yet  this  devil,  establishing  him- 
self,  refuses  to  pay  a  single  tax  .  .  .  and  he  brings  a  poison- 
ous spawn  of  babes." 

**Oast  him  into  jail,"  I  said. 


go  U/ori^s  of  R^adyard  I^ipIlQ^ 

** Sahib,"  the  king  answered,  shifting  a  little  on  the  cush- 
ions, "once  and  only  once  in  these  forty  years  sickness  came 
upon  me  so  that  I  was  not  able  to  go  abroad.  In  that  hour 
I  made  a  vow  to  my  God  that  I  would  never  again  cut  man 
or  woman  from  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  air  of  God,  for  I 
perceived  the  nature  of  the  punishment.  How  can  I  break 
my  vow?  Were  it  only  the  lopping  off  of  a  hand  or  a  foot, 
I  should  not  delay.  But  even  that  is  impossible  now  that 
the  English  have  rule.  One  or  another  of  my  people" — he 
looked  obliquely  at  the  director-general  of  public  education — 
*' would  at  once  write  a  letter  to  the  viceroy,  and  perhaps  I 
should  be  deprived  of  that  ruffle  of  drums. ' ' 

He  unscrewed  the  mouthpiece  of  his  silver  water-pipe, 
fitted  a  plain  amber  one,  and  passed  the  pipe  to  me.  '^ISrot 
content  with  refusing  revenue,"  he  continued,  *'this  out- 
lander  refuses  also  to  beegar"  (this  is  the  corvee  or  forced 
labor  on  the  roads),  "and  stirs  my  people  up  to  the  like 
treason.  Yet  he  is,  if  so  he  wills,  an  expert  log-snatcher. 
There  is  none  better  or  bolder  among  my  people  to  clear  a 
block  of  the  river  when  the  logs  stick  fast." 

"But  he  worships  strange  gods,"  said  the  prime  minister, 
deferentially. 

"For  that  I  have  no  concern,"  said  the  king,  who  was  as 
tolerant  as  Akbar  in  matters  of  belief.  "To  each  man  his 
own  god,  and  the  fire  or  Mother  Earth  for  us  all  at  the  last. 
It  is  the  rebellion  that  offends  me." 

"The  king  has  an  army,"  I  suggested.  "Has  not  the 
king  burned  the  man's  house,  and  left  him  naked  to  the  night 
dews?" 

"Nay.  A  hut  is  a  hut,  and  it  holds  the  life  of  a  man. 
But  once  I  sent  my  army  against  him  when  his  excuses  be- 
came wearisome.  Of  their  heads  he  brake  three  across  the 
top  with  a  stick.  The  other  two  men  ran  away.  Also 
the  guns  would  not  shoot." 

I  had  seen  the  equipment  of  the  infantry.  One- third  of 
it  was  an  old  muzzle-loading  fowling-piece  with  ragged  rust 
holes  where  the  nipples  should  have  beenj   one- third  a  wire- 


/T\ipe  OwT)  people  31 

bound  match-lock  with  a  worm-eaten  stock,  and  one-third  a 
four-bore  flint  duck-gun,  without  a  flint. 

"But  it  is  to  be  remembered,"  said  the  king,  reaching  out 
for  the  bottle,  *'that  he  is  a  very  expert  log-snatcher  and  a 
man  of  a  merry  face.     What  shall  I  do  to  him,  sahib?" 

This  was  interesting.  The  timid  hill-folk  would  as  soon 
have  refused  taxes  to  their  king  as  offerings  to  their  gods. 
The  rebel  must  be  a  man  of  character. 

''If  it  be  the  king's  permission,"  I  said,  ''I  will  not  strike 
my  tents  till  the  third  day,  and  I  will  see  this  man.  The 
mercy  of  the  king  is  godlike,  and  rebellion  is  like  unto  the 
sin  of  witchcraft.  Moreover,  both  the  bottles,  and  another, 
be  empty." 

"You  have  my  leave  to  go,"  said  the  king. 

Next  morning  the  crier  went  through  the  state  proclaira- 
ing  that  there  was  a  log- jam  on  the  river  and  that  it  behooved 
all  loyal  subjects  to  clear  it.  The  people  poured  down  from 
their  villages  to  the  moist,  warm  valley  of  poppy  fields,  and 
the  king  and  I  went  with  them. 

Hundreds  of  dressed  deodar  logs  had  caught  on  a  snag  of 
rock,  and  the  river  was  bringing  down  more  logs  every  min- 
ute to  complete  the  blockade.  The  water  snarled  and  wrenched 
and  worried  at  the  timber,  while  the  population  of  the  state 
prodded  at  the  nearest  logs  with  poles,  in  the  hope  of  easing 
the  pressure.  Then  there  went  up  a  shout  of  "N"amgay 
Doola!  Kamgay  Doola!"  and  a  large,  red-haired  villager 
hurried  up,  stripping  off  his  clothes  as  he  ran. 

"That  is  he.  That  is  the  rebel!"  said  the  king.  "Now 
will  the  dam  be  cleared." 

"But  why  has  he  red  hair?"  I  asked,  since  red  hair  among 
hill-folk  is  as  uncommon  as  blue  or  green. 

"He  is  an  outlander,"  said  the  king.  "Well  done!  Oli^ 
well  done!" 

Namgay  Doola  had  scrambled  on  the  jam  and  was  claw- 
ing out  the  butt  of  a  log  with  a  rude  sort  of  a  boat-hook.  It 
shd  forward  slowly,  as  an  alligator  moves,  and  three  or  four 
others  followed  it.     The  green  water  spouted  through  the 


32  Tl/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

gaps.  Then  tlie  villagers  howled  and  shouted  and  leaped 
among  the  logs,  pulling  and  pushing  the  obstinate  timber, 
and  the  red  head  of  Namgay  Doola  was  chief  among  them 
all.  The  logs  swayed  and  chafed  and  groaned  as  fresh  con- 
signments from  up-stream  battered  the  now  weakening  dam. 
It  gave  way  at  last  in  a  smother  of  foam,  racing  butts,  bob- 
bing black  heads,  and  a  confusion  indescribable,  as  the  river 
tossed  everything  before  it.  I  saw  the  red  head  go  down 
with  the  last  remnants  of  the  jam  and  disappear  between  the 
great  grinding  tree  trunks.  It  rose  close  to  the  bank,  and 
blowing  like  a  grampus,  l^amgay  Doola  wiped  the  water  out 
of  his  eyes  and  made  obeisance  to  the  king. 

I  had  time  to  observe  the  man  closely.  The  virulent  red- 
ness of  his  shock  head  and  beard  was  most  startling,  and  in 
the  thicket  of  hair  twinkled  above  high  cheek-bones  two  very 
merry  blue  eyes.  He  was  indeed  an  outlander,  but  yet  a 
Thibetan  in  language,  habit  and  attire.  He  spoke  the  Lepcha 
dialect  with  an  indescribable  softening  of  the  gutturals.  It 
was  not  so  much  a  lisp  as  an  accent. 

*' Whence  comest  thou?"  I  asked,  wondering. 

"From  Thibet.'*  He  pointed  across  the  hills  and  grinned. 
That  grin  went  straight  to  my  heart.  Mechanically  I  held 
out  my  hand,  and  !N"amgay  Doola  took  it.  !N"o  pure  Thibetan 
would  have  understood  the  meaning  of  the  gesture.  He 
went  away  to  look  for  his  clothes,  and  as  he  climbed  back 
to  his  village,  I  heard  a  joyous  yell  that  seemed  unaccount- 
ably familiar.     It  was  the  whooping  of  ITamgay  Doola. 

"You  see  now,"  said  the  king,  "why  I  would  not  kill 
him.  He  is  a  bold  man  among  my  logs,  but,"  and  he  shook 
his  head  like  a  schoolmaster,  "I  know  that  before  long  there 
wiU  be  complaints  of  him  in  the  court.  Let  us  return  to  the 
palace  and  do  justice."  | 

It  was  that  king's  custom  to  judge  his  subjects  every  dajF 
between  eleven  and  three  o'clock.     I  heard  him  do  justice     | 
equitably  on  weighty  matters  of  trespass,  slander,  and  a  little 
wife-stealing.     Then  Ms  brow  clouded  and  he  summoned  me 

* '  Again  it  is  Namgay  Doola, ' '  he  said ,  despairingly.    *  *  Not 


(I\ir)8  Omjt)  people  33 

content  with  refusing  revenue  on  Ms  own  part,  he  has  bound 
half  his  village  by  an  oath  to  the  like  treason.  Never  before 
has  such  a  thing  befallen  me!     !N"or  are  my  taxes  heavy." 

A  rabbit-faced  villager,  with  a  blush-rose  stuck  behind 
his  ear,  advanced  trembling.  He  had  been  in  Kamgay 
Doola's  conspiracy,  but  had  told  everything  and  hoped  for 
the  king's  favor. 

**0h,  king!"  said  I,  ^'if  it  be  the  king's  will,  let  this  mat- 
ter stand  over  till  the  morning.  Only  the  gods  can  do  right 
in  a  hurry,  and  it  may  be  that  yonder  villager  has  lied." 

"!N"ay,  for  I  know  the  nature  of  Xamgay  Doola;  but  since 
a  guest  asks,  let  the  matter  remain.  Wilt  thou,  for  my  sake, 
speak  harshly  to  this  red-headed  outlander?  He  may  listen 
to  thee." 

I  made  an  attempt  that  very  evening,  but  for  the  life  of 
me  I  could  not  keep  my  countenance.  ITamgay  Doola 
grinned  so  persuasively  and  began  to  tell  me  about  a  big 
brown  bear  in  a  poppy  field  by  the  river.  "Would  I  care  to 
shoot  that  bear?  I  spoke  austerely  on  the  sin  of  detected 
conspiracy  and  the  certainty  of  punishment.  !N"amgay 
Doola's  face  clouded  for  a  moment.  Shortly  afterward 
he  withdrew  from  my  tent^  and  I  heard  him  singing  softly 
among  the  pines.  The  words  were  unintelligible  to  me,  but 
the  tune,  like  his  liquid,  insinuating  speech,  seemed  the  ghost 
of  something  strangely  f amihar. 

*'Dir  hane  mard-i-yemen  dir 
To  weeree  ala  gee, ' ' 

crooned  Namgay  Doola  again  and  again,  and  I  racked  my 
brain  for  that  lost  tune.  It  was  not  till  after  dinner  that 
I  discovered  some  one  had  cut  c.  square  foot  of  velvet  from 
the  center  of  my  best  camera-cloth.  This  made  me  so  angry 
that  I  wandered  down  the  valley  in  the  hope  of  meeting  the 
big  brown  bear.  I  could  hear  him  grunting  like  a  discon- 
tented pig  in  the  poppy  field  as  I  waited  shoulder  deep  in  the 
dew-dripping  Indian  corn  to  catch  him  after  his  meal.  The 
moon  was  at  full  and  drew  out  the  scent  of  the  tasseled  crop. 


34  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  KjpUT)q 

Then  I  heard  the  anguished  bellow  of  a  Himalayan  cow- 
one  of  the  little  black  crummies  no  bigger  than  !N"ewfound- 
land  dogs.  Two  shadows  that  looked  like  a  bear  and  her 
cub  hurried  past  me,  I  was  in  the  act  of  firing  when  I  saw 
that  each  bore  a  brilliant  red  head.  The  lesser  animal  was 
trailing  something  rope-like  that  left  a  dark  track  on  the 
path.  They  were  within  six  feet  of  me,  and  the  shadow  of 
the  moonlight  lay  velvet-black  on  their  faces.  Yelvet«black 
was  exactly  the  word,  for  by  all  the  powers  of  moonlight 
they  were  masked  in  the  velvet  of  my  camera-cloth.  I 
marveled,  and  went  to  bed. 

^N'ext  morning  the  kingdom  was  in  an  nproar.  Famgay 
Doola,  men  said,  had  gone  forth  in  the  night  and  with  a 
sharp  knife  had  cut  off  the  tail  of  a  cow  belonging  to  the 
irabbit-faced  villager  who  had  betrayed  him.  It  was  sacri- 
lege unspeakable  against  the  holy  cow!  The  state  desired 
liis  blood,  but  he  had  retreated  into  his  hut,  barricaded  the 
doors  and  windows  with  big  stones,  and  defied  the  world. 

The  king  and  I  and  the  populace  approached  the  hut  cau- 
tiously. There  was  no  hope  of  capturing  our  man  without 
loss  of  life,  for  from  a  hole  in  the  wall  projected  the  muzzle 
of  an  extremely  well-cared-for  gun— the  only  gun  in  the  state 
that  could  shoot.  Kamgay  Doola  had  narrowly  missed  a 
villager  just  before  we  came  up. 

The  standing  army  stood. 

It  could  do  no  more,  for  when  it  advanced  pieces  of  sharp 
shale  flew  from  the  windows.  To  these  were  added  from 
time  to  time  showers  of  scalding  water.  We  saw  red  heads 
bobbing  up  and  down  within.  The  family  of  l&Tamgay  Doola 
were  aiding  their  sire.  Blood-curdling  yells  of  defiance  were 
the  only  answer  to  our  prayers. 

''Kever,*'  said  the  king,  puffing,  *'has  such  a  thing  be- 
fallen my  state.  Next  year  I  will  certainly  buy  a  little 
cannon."     He  looked  at  me  imploringly, 

'*Is  there  any  priest  in  the  kingdom  to  whom  he  will 
listen?'*  said  I,  for  a  light  was  beginning  to  break  upon 
meo 


/r\ii}e  OwT)  people  35 

*'He  worships  his  own  god/'  said  the  prime  minister. 
^*We  can  but  starve  him  out." 

'*Let  the  white  man  approach,"  said  ]N"amgay  Doola  from 
within.     *'A11  others  I  will  kill.     Send  me  the  white  man." 

The  door  was  thrown  open  and  I  entered  the  smoky  inte- 
rior of  a  Thibetan  hut  crammed  with  children.  And  every 
child  had  flaming  red  hair.  A  fresh-gathered  cow's  tail  lay 
on  the  floor,  and  by  its  side  tv/o  pieces  of  black  velvet — my 
black  velvet — rudely  hacked  into  the  semblance  of  masks. 

"And  what  is  this  shame,  Namgay  Doola?"  I  asked. 

He  grinned  more  charmingly  than  ever.  *' There  is  no 
shame,"  said  he.  "I  did  but  cut  off  the  tail  of  that  man's 
cow.  He  betrayed  me.  I  was  minded  to  shoot  him,  sahib, 
but  not  to  death.     Indeed,  not  to  death ;   only  in  the  legs. ' ' 

*'And  why  at  all,  since  it  is  the  custom  to  pay  revenue  to 
the  king?     Why  at  all?" 

*'By  the  god  of  my  father,  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Namgay 
Doola. 

*'And  who  was  thy  father?" 

**The  same  that  had  this  gun."  He  showed  me  his 
weapon,  a  Tower  musket,  bearing  date  1832  and  the  stamp 
of  the  Honorable  East  India  Company. 

"And  thy  father's  name?"  said  I. 

"Timlay  Doola,"  said  he.  "At  the  first,  I  being  then  a 
little  child,  it  is  in  my  mind  that  he  wore  a  red  coat. ' ' 

"Of  that  I  have  no  doubt;  but  repeat  the  name  of  thy 
father  twice  or  thrice." 

He  obeyed,  and  I  understood  whence  the  puzzling  accent 
in  his  speech  came.  "Thimla  Dhula!"  said  he,  excitedly. 
"To  this  hour  I  worship  his  god." 

"May  I  see  that  god?" 

"In  a  little  while — at  twilight  time." 

"Rememberest  thou  aught  of  thy  father's  speech?" 

"It  is  long  ago.  But  there  was  one  word  which  he  said 
often.  Thus,  '  'Shun!'  Then  I  and  my  brethren  stood  upon 
our  feet,  our  hands  to  our  sides,  thus." 

Even  so.     And  what  was  thy  mother?" 


iC 


36  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  KJpViT)^ 

**A  woman  of  the  Hills.  We  be  Lepchas  of  Darjiling, 
but  me  they  call  an  outlander  because  my  hair  is  as  thou 
seest." 

The  Thibetan  woman,  his  wife,  touched  him  on  the  arm 
gently.  The  long  parley  outside  the  fort  had  lasted  far  into 
the  day.  It  was  now  close  upon  twilight — the  hour  of  the 
Angelus.  Very  solemnly  tbe  red-headed  brats  rose  from  the 
floor  and  formed  a  semicircle.  Namgay  Doola  laid  his  gun 
aside,  lighted  a  little  oil  lamp,  and  set  it  before  a  recess  in 
the  wall.  Pulling  back  a  whisp  of  dirty  cloth,  he  revealed 
a  worn  brass  crucifix  leaning  against  the  helmet  badge  of  a 
long-forgotten  East  India  Company's  regiment.  "Thus  did 
my  father,"  he  said,  crossing  himseK  clumsily.  The  wife 
and  children  followed  suit.  Then,  all  together,  they  struck 
up  the  wailing  chant  that  I  heard  on  the  hillside : 

"Dir  hane  mard-i-yemen  dir 
To  weeree  ala  gee. " 

I  was  puzzled  no  longer.  Again  and  again  they  sung, 
as  if  their  hearts  would  break,  their  version  of  the  chorus  of 
"The  Wearing  of  the  Green": 

"They're  hanging  men  and  women,  too^ 
For  the  wearing  of  the  green. " 

A  diabolical  inspiration  came  to  me.  One  of  the  brats, 
a  boy  about  eight  years  old — could  he  have  been  in  the  fields 
last  night? — was  watching  me  as  he  sung.  I  pulled  out  a 
rupee,  held  the  coin  betv^^een  finger  and  thumb,  and  looked — 
only  looked—at  the  gun  leaning  against  the  wall.  A  grin  of 
brilliant  and  perfect  comprehension  overspread  his  porringer- 
like face,  l^ever  for  an  instant  stopping  the  song,  he  held 
out  his  hand  for  the  money,  and  then  slid  the  gun  to  my 
hand.  I  might  have  shot  IvTamgay  Doola  dead  as  he  chanted, 
but  I  was  satisfied.  The  inevitable  blood-instinct  held  -true. 
ITamgay  Doola  drew  the  curtain  across  the  recess.  Angelus 
was  over. 

"Thus  my  father  sung.     There  was  much  more,  but  I 


fC[iT)e  Omjt)  people  37 

have  forgotten,  and  I  do  not  know  the  purport  of  even  these 
words,  but  it  may  be  that  the  god  will  understand.  I  am 
not  of  this  people,  and  I  will  not  pay  revenue." 

*'And  why?" 

Again  that  soul-compelling  grin.  "What  occupation 
would  be  to  me  between  crop  and  crop?  It  is  better  than 
scaring  bears.     But  these  people  do  not  understand." 

He  picked  the  masks  off  the  floor  and  looked  in  my  face 
as  simply  as  a  child. 

''By  what  road  didst  thou  attain  knowledge  to  make 
those  deviltries?"  I  said,  pointing. 

*'I  cannot  tell.  I  am  but  a  Lepcha  of  Darjiling,  and  yet 
the  stuff—" 

"Which  thou  hast  stolen,"  said  I, 

"Nay,  surely.  Did  I  steal?  I  desired  it  so.  The  stuff— 
the  stuff.  What  else  should  I  have  done  with  the  stuff?" 
He  twisted  the  velvet  between  his  fingers. 

"But  the  sin  of  maiming  the  cow — consider  that." 

"Oh,  sahib,  the  man  betrayed  me;  the  heifer^s  tail  waved 
in  the  moonjight,  and  I  had  my  knife.  What  else  should  I 
have  done?  The  tail  came  off  ere  I  was  aware.  Sahib,  thou 
knowest  more  than  I." 

"That  is  true,"  said  I,  "Stay  within  the  door.  I  go  to 
speak  to  the  king."  The  population  of  the  state  were  ranged 
on  the  hillside.     I  went  forth  and  spoke. 

"Oh,  king,"  said  I,  "touching  this  man,  there  be  two 
courses  open  to  thy  wisdom.  Thou  canst  either  hang  him 
from  a  tree— he  and  his  brood^ — till  there  remains  no  hair 
that  is  red  within  thy  land." 

"ISTay,"  said  the  king.  "Why  should  I  hurt  the  little 
children?" 

They  had  poured  out  of  the  hut  and  were  making  plump 
obeisances  to  everybody.  !N"amgay  Doola  waited  at  the  door 
with  his  gun  across  his  arm. 

"Or  thou  canst,  discarding  their  impiety  of  the  cow-maim- 
ing, raise  him  to  honor  m  thy  army.  He  comes  of  a  race 
that  will  not  pay  revenue.     A  red  flame  is  in  his  blood  which 


38  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{ip\\T)<^ 

comes  out  at  the  top  of  Ms  head  in  that  glowing  hair.  Maks 
him  chief  of  thy  army.  Give  him  honor  as  may  befall  and 
full  allowance  of  work,  but  look  to  it,  oh,  king,  that  neither 
he  nor  his  hold  a  foot  of  earth  from  thee  henceforward.  Feed 
him  with  words  and  favor,  and  also  liquor  from  certain  bot- 
tles that  thou  knowest  of,  and  he  will  be  a  bulwark  of  de- 
fense. But  deny  him  even  a  tuftlet  of  grass  for  his  own. 
This  is  the  nature  that  God  has  given  him.  Moreover,  he 
has  brethren—" 

The  state  groaned  unanimously. 

*'But  if  his  brethren  come  they  will  surely  fight  with  each 
other  till  they  die ;  or  else  the  one  will  always  give  informa- 
tion concerning  the  other.  Shall  he  be  of  thy  army,  oh,  king? 
Choose." 

The  king  bowed  his  head,  and  I  said:  *'Come  forth, 
^Namgay  Doola,  and  command  the  king's  army.  Thy  name 
shall  no  more  be  E'amgay  in  the  mouths  of  men,  but  Patsay 
Doola,  for,  as  thou  hast  truly  said,  I  know." 

Then  ITamgay  Doola,  new-christened  Patsay  Doola,  son 
of  Timlay  Doola — which  is  Tim  Doolan — clasped  the  king's 
feet,  cuffed  the  standing  army,  and  hurried  in  an  agony  of 
contrition  from  temple  to  temple  making  offerings  for  the  sin 
of  the  cattle  maiming. 

And  the  king  was  so  pleased  with  my  perspicacity  that 
he  offered  to  sell  me  a  village  for  £20  sterling.  But  I  buy 
no  village  in  the  Himalayas  so  long  as  one  red  head  flares 
between  the  tail  of  the  heaven-climbing  glacier  and  the  dark 
birch  forest. 

I  know  that  breed. 


THE   RECRUDESCENCE   OF   IMRAY 

Imray  had  achieved  the  impossible.  Without  warning, 
for  no  conceivable  motive,  in  his  youth  and  at  the  threshold 
of  his  career  he  had  chosen  to  disappear  from  the  world — 


/T\ipe  OwT)  people  39 

which  is  to  say,  the  little  Indian  station  where  he  lived. 
Upon  a  day  he  was  alive,  well,  happy,  and  in  great  evidence 
at  his  club,  among  the  billiard- tables.  Upon  a  morning  he 
was  not,  and  no  manner  of  search  could  make  sure  where 
he  might  be.  He  had  stepped  out  of  his  place ;  he  had  not 
appeared  at  his  office  at  the  proper  time,  and  his  dog-cart  was 
not  upon  the  public  roads.  For  these  reasons  and  because  he 
was  hampering  in  a  microscopical  degree  the  administration 
of  the  Indian  Empire,  the  Indian  Empire  paused  for  one 
microscopical  moment  to  make  inquiry  into  the  fate  of  Imray, 
Ponds  were  dragged,  wells  were  plumbed,  telegrams  were 
dispatched  down  the  Knes  of  railways  and  to  the  nearest  sea- 
port town — 1,200  miles  away — but  Imray  was  not  at  the  end 
of  the  drag-ropes  nor  the  telegrams.  He  was  gone,  and  his 
place  knew  him  no  more.  Then  the  work  of  the  great  Indian 
Empire  swept  forward,  because  it  could  not  be  delayed,  and 
Imray,  from  being  a  man,  became  a  mystery — such  a  thing 
as  men  talk  over  at  their  tables  in  the  club  for  a  month  and 
then  forget  utterly.  His  guns,  horses,  and  carts  were  sold  to 
the  highest  bidder.  His  superior  officer  wrote  an  absurd 
letter  to  his  mother,  saying  that  Imray  had  unaccountably 
disappeared  and  his  bungalow  stood  empty  on  the  road. 

After  three  or  four  months  of  the  scorching  hot  weather 
had  gone  by,  my  friend  Strickland,  of  the  police  force,  saw 
fit  to  rent  the  bungalow  from  the  native  landlord.  This  was 
before  he  was  engaged  to  Miss  Youghal — an  affair  which  has 
been  described  in  another  place- — and  while  he  was  pursuing 
his  investigations  into  native  life.  His  own  life  was  suffi- 
ciently peculiar,  and  men  complained  of  his  manners  and 
customs.  There  was  always  food  in  his  house,  but  there 
were  no  regular  times  for  meals.  He  eat,  standing  up  and 
walking  about,  whatever  he  might  find  on  the  sideboard,  and 
this  is  not  good  for  the  insides  of  human  beings.  His  domes- 
tic equipment  was  limited  to  six  rifles,  three  shot-guns,  five 
saddles,  and  a  collection  of  stiff -jointed  masheer  rods,  bigger 
and  stronger  than  the  largest  salmon  rods.  These  things 
occupied  one  half  of  his  bungalow^  and  the  other  half  was 


40  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplii>^ 

given  up  to  Strickland  and  his  dog  Tietjens — an  enormous 
Kanipur  slut,  who  sung  when  she  was  ordered,  and  devoured 
daily  the  rations  of  two  men.  She  spoke  to  Strickland  in  a 
language  of  her  own,  and  whenever  in  her  walks  abroad  she 
saw  things  calculated  to  destroy  the  peace  of  Her  Majesty 
the  Queen  Empress,  she  returned  to  her  master  and  gave  him 
information.  Strickland  would  take  steps  at  once,  and  the 
end  of  his  labors  was  trouble  and  fine  and  imprisonment  for 
other  people.  The  natives  believed  that  Tietjens  was  a  fa- 
miliar spirit,  and  treated  her  with  the  great  reverence  that  is 
born  of  hate  and  fear.  One  room  in  the  bungalow  was  set 
apart  for  her  special  use.  She  owned  a  bedstead,  a  blanket, 
and  a  drinking-trough,  and  if  any  one  came  into  Strickland's 
room  at  night,  her  custom  was  to  knock  down  the  invader 
and  give  tongue  till  some  one  came  with  a  light.  Strickland 
owes  his  life  to  her.  When  he  was  on  the  frontier  in  search 
of  the  local  murderer  who  came  in  the  gray  dawn  to  send 
Strickland  much  further  than  the  Andaman  Islands,  Tietjens 
caught  him  as  he  was  crawhng  into  Strickland's  tent  with  a 
dagger  between  his  teeth,  and  after  his  record  of  iniquity  was 
established  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  he  was  hanged.  From 
that  date  Tietjens  wore  a  collar  of  rough  silver  and  employed 
a  monogram  on  her  night  blanket,  and  the  blanket  was 
double-woven  Kashmir  cloth,  for  she  was  a  delicate  dog. 

Under  no  circumstances  would  she  be  separated  from 
Strickland,  and  when  he  was  ill  with  fever  she  made  great 
trouble  for  the  doctors  because  she  did  not  know  how  to  help 
her  master  and  would  not  allow  another  creature  to  attempt 
aid.  Macarnaght,  of  the  Indian  Medical  Service,  beat  her 
over  the  head  with  a  gun,  before  she  could  understand  that 
she  must  give  room  for  those  who  could  give  quinine. 

A  short  time  after  Strickland  had  taken  Imray's  bun- 
galow, my  business  took  me  through  that  station,  and  natur- 
ally, the  club  quarters  being  full,  I  quartered  myself  -upon 
Strickland.  It  was  a  desirable  bungalovf ,  eight-roomed,  and 
heavily  tha^tched  against  any  chance  of  leakage  from  rain. 
Under  the  pitch  of  the  roof  ran  a  ceiling  cloth,  which  looked 


/r\ii>3  OwT)  people  41 

just  as  nice  as  a  whitewashed  ceiling.  The  landlord  had 
repainted  it  when  Strickland  took  the  bungalow,  and  unless 
you  knew  how  Indian  bungalows  were  built  you  would  never 
have  suspected  that  above  the  cloth  lay  the  dark,  three- 
cornered  cavern  of  the  roof,  where  the  beams  and  the  under 
side  of  the  thatch  harbored  all  manner  of  rats,  bats,  ants,  and 
other  things. 

Tietjens  met  me  in  the  veranda  with  a  bay  like  the  boom 
of  the  bells  of  St.  Paul's,  and  put  her  paws  on  my  shoulders 
and  said  she  was  glad  to  see  me.  Strickland  had  contrived 
to  put  together  that  sort  of  meal  which  he  called  lunch,  and 
immediately  after  it  was  finished  went  out  about  his  business. 
I  was  left  alone  with  Tietjens  and  my  own  affairs.  The  heat 
of  the  summer  had  broken  up  and  given  place  to  the  warm 
damp  of  the  rains.  There  was  no  motion  in  the  heated  air, 
but  the  rain  fell  like  bayonet  rods  on  the  earth,  and  flung  up 
a  blue  mist  where  it  splashed  back  again.  The  bamboos  and 
the  custard  apples,  the  poinsettias  and  the  mango-trees  in  the 
garden  stood  still -while  the  warm  water  lashed  through  them, 
and  the  frogs  began  to  sing  among  the  aloe  hedges.  A  little 
before  the  light  failed,  and  when  the  rain  "was  at  its  worst,  I 
sat  in  the  back  veranda  and  heard  the  water  roar  from  the 
eaves,  and  scratched  myself  because  I  was  covered  with  the 
thing  they  called  prickly  heat.  Tietjens  came  out  with  me 
and  put  her  head  in  my  lap,  and  was  very  sorrowful,  so  I 
gave  her  biscuits  when  tea  was  ready,  and  I  took  tea  in  the 
back  veranda  on  account  of  the  little  coolness  I  found  there. 
The  rooms  of  the  house  were  dark  behind  me.  I  could  smeR 
Strickland's  saddlery  and  the  oil  on  his  guns,  and  I  did  not 
the  least  desire  to  sit  among  these  things.  My  own  servant 
came  to  me  in  the  twilight,  the  musHn  of  his  clothes  clinging 
tightly  to  his  drenched  body,  and  told  me  that  a  gentleman 
had  called  and  wished  to  see  some  one.  Very  much  against 
my  will,  and  because  of  the  darkness  of  the  rooms,  I  went 
into  the  naked  drawing -room,  telling  my  man  to  bring  the 
lights.  There  might  or  might  not  have  been  a  caller  in  the 
room — it  seems  to  me  that  I  saw  a  figure  by  one  of  the  win- 


4^  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^fplii79 

dows,  but  when  the  Hghts  came  there  was  nothing  save  the 
spikes  of  the  rain  without  and  the  smell  of  the  drinking  earth 
in  my  nostrils.  I  explained  to  my  man  that  he  was  no  wiser 
than  he  ought  to  be,  and  went  back  to  the  veranda  to  talk  to 
Tietjens.  She  had  gone  out  into  the  wet  and  I  could  hardly 
coax  her  back  to  me — even  with  biscuits  with  sugar  on  top. 
Strickland  rode  back,  dripping  wet,  just  before  dinner,  and 
the  first  thing  he  said  was : 

^'Has  any  one  called?" 

I  explained,  with  apologies,  that  my  servant  had  called 
me  into  the  drawing-room  on  a  false  alarm ;  or  that  some 
loafer  had  tried  to  call  on  Strickland,  and,  thinking  better  of 
it,  fled  after  giving  his  name.  Strickland  ordered  dinner 
without  comment,  and  since  it  was  a  real  dinner,  with  white 
table-cloth  attached,  we  sat  down. 

At  nine  o'clock  Strickland  wanted  to  go  to  bed,  and  I  was 
tired  too.  Tietjens,  who  had  been  lying  underneath  the 
table,  rose  up  and  went  into  the  least  exposed  veranda  as  soon 
as  her  master  moved  to  his  own  room,  which  was  next  to  the 
stately  chamber  set  apart  for  Tietjens.  If  a  mere  wife  had 
wished  to  sleep  out-of-doors  in  that  pelting  rain,  it  would  not 
have  mattered,  but  Tietjens  was  a  dog,  and  therefore  the 
better  animal.  I  looked  at  Strickland,  expecting  to  see  him 
flog  her  with  a  whip.  He  smiled  queerly,  as  a  man  would 
smile  after  telling  some  hideous  domestic  tragedy.  ' '  She  has 
done  this  ever  since  I  moved  in  here." 

The  dog  was  Strickland's  dog,  so  I  said  nothing,  but  I 
felt  all  that  Strickland  felt  in  being  made  light  of.  Tietjens 
encamped  outside  my  bedroom  window,  and  storm  after 
storm  came  up,  thundered  on  the  thatch,  and  died  away. 
The  lightning  spattered  the  sky  as  a  thrown  egg  spatters  a 
barn  door,  but  the  light  was  pale  blue,  not  yellow ;  and  look- 
ing through  my  slit  bamboo  blinds,  I  could  see  the  great  dog 
standing,  not  sleeping,  in  the  veranda,  the  hackles  alift  on 
her  back,  and  her  feet  planted  as  tensely  as  the  drawn  wire 
rope  of  a  suspension  bridge.  In  the  very  short  pauses  of  the 
thunder  I  tried  to  sleep,  but  it  seemed  that  some  one  wanted 


/r\ioe  Ou/Q  people  43 

me  very  badly.  He,  whoever  he  was,  was  trying  to  call  me 
by  name,  but  his  voice  was  no  more  than  a  husky  whisper. 
Then  the  thunder  ceased  and  Tietjens  went  into  the  garden 
and  howled  at  the  low  moon.  Somebody  tried  to  open  my 
door,  and  walked  about  and  through  the  house,  and  stood 
breathing  heavily  in  the  verandas,  and  just  when  I  was  fall- 
ing asleep  I  fancied  that  I  heard  a  wild  hammering  and 
clamoring  above  my  head  or  on  the  door. 

I  ran  into  Strickland's  room  and  asked  him  whether  he 
was  ill  and  had  been  calling  for  me.  He  was  lying  on  the 
bed  half -dressed,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  "I  thought  you'd 
come,"  he  said.  "Have  I  been  walking  around  the  house 
at  all?" 

I  explained  that  he  had  been  in  the  dining-room  and  the 
smoking-room  and  two  or  three  other  places ;  and  he  laughed 
and  told  me  to  go  back  to  bed.  I  went  back  to  bed  and  slept 
till  the  morning,  but  in  all  my  dreams  I  was  sure  I  was  doing 
some  one  an  injustice  in  not  attending  to  his  wants.  What 
those  wants  were  I  could  not  tell,  but  a  fluttering,  whispering, 
bolt-fumbling,  luring,  loitering  some  one  was  reproaching 
me  for  my  slackness,  and  through  all  the  dreams  I  heard  the 
howling  of  Tietjens  in  the  garden  and  the  thrashing  of  the 
rain. 

I  was  in  that  house  for  two  days,  and  Strickland  went  to 
his  office  daily,  leaving  me  alone  for  eight  or  ten  hours  a  daj, 
with  Tietjens  for  my  only  companion.  As  long  as  the  full 
light  lasted  I  was  comfortable,  and  so  was  Tietjens ;  but  in 
the  twilight  she  and  I  moved  into  the  back  veranda  and 
cuddled  each  other  for  company.  "We  were  alone  in  the 
house,  but  for  all  that  it  was  fully  occupied  by  a  tenant  with 
whom  I  had  no  desire  to  interfere.  I  never  saw  him,  but  I 
could  see  the  curtains  between  the  rooms  quivering  where  he 
had  just  passed  through ;  I  could  hear  the  chairs  creaking  as 
the  bamboos  sprung  under  a  weight  that  had  just  quitted 
them ;  and  I  could  feel  when  I  went  to  get  a  book  from  the 
dining-room  that  somebody  was  waiting  in  the  shadows  of 
the  front  veranda  till  I  should  have  gone  away.     Tietjens 


44  U/orl^s  of  r^udyard  I^iplii)^ 

made  the  twilight  more  interesting  by  glaring  into  the  dark- 
ened rooms,  with  every  hair  erect,  and  following  the  motions 
of  something  that  I  could  not  see.  She  never  entered  the 
rooms,  but  her  eyes  moved,  and  that  was  quite  sufficient. 
Only  when  my  servant  came  to  trim  the  lamps  and  make  all 
light  and  habitable,  she  would  come  in  with  me  and  spend 
her  time  sitting  on  her  haunches  watching  an  invisible  extra 
man  as  he  moved  about  behind  my  shoulder.  Dogs  are 
cheerful  companions. 

I  explained  to  Strickland,  gently  as  might  be,  that  I  would 
go  over  to  the  club  and  find  for  myseK  quarters  there.  I 
admired  his  hospitality,  was  pleased  with  his  guns  and  rods, 
but  I  did  not  much  care  for  his  house  and  its  atmosphere.  He 
heard  me  out  to  the  end,  and  then  smiled  very  wearily,  but 
without  contempt,  for  he  is  a  man  who  understands  things. 
*'Stay  on,"  he  said,  *^and  see  what  this  thing  means.  AU 
you  have  talked  about  I  have  known  since  I  took  the  bun- 
galow. Stay  on  and  wait.  Tietjens  has  left  me.  Are  you 
going  too?" 

I  had  seen  him  through  one  little  affair  connected  with  an 
idol  that  had  brought  me  to  the  doors  of  a  lunatic  asylum, 
and  I  had  no  desire  to  help  him  through  further  experiences. 
He  was  a  man  to  whom  unpleasantnesses  arrived  as  do 
dinners  to  ordinary  people. 

Therefore  I  explained  more  clearly  than  ever  that  I  liked 
him  immensely,  and  would  be  happy  to  see  him  in  the  day- 
time,  but  that  I  didn't  care  to  sleep  under  his  roof.  This  was 
after  dinner,  when  Tietjens  had  gone  out  to  lie  in  the  veranda. 

'"Pon  my  soul,  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Strickland,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  ceiling-cloth.     "Look  at  that!" 

The  tails  of  two  snakes  were  hanging  between  the  cloth 
and  the  cornice  of  the  wall.  They  threw  long  shadows  in 
the  lamplight.  *'If  you  are  afraid  of  snakes,  of  course—" 
said  Strickland.  "I  hate  and  fear  snakes,  because  if  you  look 
into  the  eyes  of  any  snake  you  will  see  that  it  knows  all  and 
more  of  man's  fall,  and  that  it  feels  all  the  contempt  that 
the  devil  felt  when  Adam  was  evicted  from  Eden.     Besides 


fT\iT)e  Ou/p  people  45 

which  its  bite  is  generally  fatal,  and  it  bursts  up  trouser 
legs." 

*'You  ought  to  get  your  thatch  overhauled,"  I  said, 
*'Give  me  a  masheer  rod,  and  we'll  poke  'em  down." 

*' They'll  hide  among  the  roof  beams,"  said  Strickland. 
'*I  can't  stand  snakes  overhead.  I'm  going  up.  If  I  shake 
'em  down,  stand  by  with  a  cleaning-rod  and  break  their 
backs. ' ' 

I  was  not  anxious  to  assist  Strickland  in  his  work,  but  I 
took  the  loading-rod  and  waited  in  the  dining-room,  while 
Strickland  brought  a  gardener's  ladder  from  the  veranda  and 
set  it  against  the  side  of  the  room.  The  snake  tails  drew 
themselves  up  and  disappeared.  We  could  hear  the  dry 
rushing  scuttle  of  long  bodies  running  over  the  baggy  cloth* 
Strickland  took  a  lamp  with  hini,  while  I  tried  to  make  clear" 
the  danger  of  hunting  roof  snakes  between  a  ceiling-cloth  and 
a  thatch,  apart  from  the  deterioration  of  property  caused  by 
ripping  out  ceiling-cloths. 

' '  ITonsense ! ' '  said  Strickland.  ' '  They're  sure  to  hide  near 
the  walls  by  the  cloth.  The  bricks  are  too  cold  for  'em,  and 
the  heat  of  the  room  is  just  what  they  hke."  He  put  his 
hand  to  the  corner  of  the  cloth  and  ripped  the  rotten  stulf 
from  the  cornice.  It  gave  a  great  sound  of  tearing,  and 
Strickland  put  his  head  through  the  opening  into  the  dark  of 
the  angle  of  the  roof  beams.  I  set  my  teeth  and  lifted  the 
loading-rod,  for  I  had  not  the  least  knowledge  of  what  might 
descend. 

'^H'm,"  said  Strickland;  and  his  voice  rolled  and  rumbled 
in  the  roof.  "There's  room  for  another  set  of  rooms  up  here^ 
and,  by  Jove!  some  one  is  occupying  'em." 

"Snakes?"  I  said  down  below. 

"No.  It's  a  buffalo.  Hand  me  up  the  two  first  joints  of 
a  masheer  rod,  and  I'll  prod  it.  It's  lying  on  the  main 
beam. " 

I  handed  up  the  rod. 

"What  a  nest  for  owls  and  serpents!  No  wonder  the 
snakes  Hve  here, ' '  said  Strickland,  climbing  further  into  the 


46  U/or^s  of  I^adyard  I^iplip^ 

roof.  I  could  see  his  elbow  thrusting  with  the  rod.  *'Come 
out  of  that,  whoever  you  are!  Look  out!  Heads  below 
there!     It's  tottering." 

I  saw  the  ceiling-cloth  nearly  in  the  center  of  the  room 
bag  with  a  shape  that  was  pressing  it  downward  and  down- 
ward toward  the  lighted  lamps  on  the  table.  I  snatched  a 
lamp  out  of  danger  and  stood  back.  Then  the  cloth  ripped 
out  from  the  walls,  tore,  split,  swayed,  and  shot  down  upon 
the  table  something  that  I  dared  not  look  at  tOl  Strickland 
had  slid  down  the  ladder  and  was  standing  by  my  side. 

He  did  not  say  much,  being  a  man  of  few  words,  but  he 
picked  up  the  loose  end  of  the  table-cloth  and  threw  it  over 
the  thing  on  the  table. 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  he,  pulling  down  the  lamp,  "our 
friend  Imray  has  come  back.     Oh!  you  would,  would  you?" 

There  was  a  movement  under  the  cloth,  and  a  little  snake 
wriggled  out,  to  be  back-broken  by  the  butt  of  the  masheer 
rod.  I  was  sufficiently  sick  to  make  no  remarks  worth 
recording. 

Strickland  meditated  and  helped  himself  to  drinks  liberally. 
The  thing  under  the  cloth  made  no  more  signs  of  life. 

"Is  it  Imray?"  I  said. 

Strickland  turned  back  the  cloth  for  a  moment  and 
looked.  "  It  is  Imray,"  he  said,  "and  his  throat  is  cut  from 
ear  to  ear." 

Then  we  spoke  both  together  and  to  ourselves:  "That*s 
why  he  whispered  about  the  house," 

Tietjens,  in  the  garden,  began  to  bay  furiously.  A  little 
later  her  great  nose  heaved  upon  the  dining-room  door. 

She  sniffed  and  was  still.  The  broken  and  tattered  ceil- 
ing-cloth hung  down  almost  to  the  level  of  the  table,  and 
there  was  hardly  room  to  move  away  from  the  discovery. 

Then  Tietjens  came  in  and  sat  down,  her  teeth  bared  and 
her  forepaws  planted.     She  looked  at  Strickland. 

"It's  bad  business,  old  lady,"  said  he.  "Men  don't  go 
up  into  the  roofs  of  their  bungalows  to  die,  and  they  don't 
fasten  up  the  ceiling-cloth  behind  'em.     Let's  think  it  out." 


fi\\i)Q  OwT)  people  47 

*' Let's  think  it  out  somewhere  else,"  I  said. 

' '  Excellent  idea !     Turn  the  lamps  out.     We'll  get  into  my 


room. ' ' 


I  did  not  turn  the  lamps  out.  I  went  into  Strickland's 
room  first  and  allowed  him  to  make  the  darkness.  Then  he 
followed  me,  and  w^e  lighted  tobacco  and  thought.  Strick- 
land did  the  thinking.  I  smoked  furiously  because  I  was 
afraid. 

"Imray  is  back,"  said  Strickland.  ^'The  question  is,  who 
killed  Imray?  Don't  talk — I  have  a  notion  of  my  own. 
When  I  took  this  bungalow  I  took  most  of  Imray's  servants, 
Imray  was  guileless  and  inoffensive,  wasn't  he?" 

I  agreed,  though  the  heap  under  the  cloth  looked  neither 
one  thing  nor  the  other. 

"  If  I  call  the  servants  they  will  stand  fast  in  a  crowd  and 
lie  like  Aryans.     What  do  you  suggest?" 

*'Call  'em  in  one  by  one,"  I  said. 

*^  They'll  run  away  and  give  the  news  to  all  their  feUows," 
said  Strickland. 

"We  must  segregate  'em.  Do  you  suppose  your  servant 
knows  anything  about  it?" 

"He  may,  for  aught  I  know,  but  1  don't  think  it's  likely. 
He  has  only  been  here  two  or  three  days. " 
"What's  your  notion?"  I  asked. 

"I  can't  quite  tell.  How  the  dickens  did  the  man  get  the 
wrong  side  of  the  ceiling-cloth?" 

There  was  a  heavy  coughing  outside  Strickland's  bedroom 
door.  This  showed  that  Bahadur  Khan,  his  body-servant, 
had  waked  from  sleep  and  wished  to  put  Strickland  to  bed. 

"Come  in,"  said  Strickland.  "It  is  a  very  warm  night, 
isn't  it?" 

Bahadur  Khan,  a  great,  green-turbaned,  six-foot  Moham- 
medan, said  that  it  was  a  very  warm  night,  but  that  there 
was  more  rain  pending,  which,  by  his  honor's  favor,  would 
bring  relief  to  the  country. 

"It  will  be  so,  if  God  pleases,"  said  Strickland,  tugging 
off  his  boots.     "It  is  in  my  mind,  Bahadur  Khan,  that  I  have 


48  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)^' 

worked  thee  remorselessly  for  many  days — ever  since  that 
time  when  thou  first  earnest  into  my  service.  What  time 
was  that?" 

"Has  the  heaven-born  forgotten?  It  was  when  Imray 
Sahib  went  secretly  to  Europe  without  warning  given,  and  I 
—even  I — came  into  the  honored  service  of  the  protector  of 
the  poor." 

*' And  Imray  Sahib  went  to  Europe?" 

"It  is  so  said  among  the  servants." 

"And  thou  wilt  take  service  with  him  when  he  returns?" 

"Assuredly,  sahib.  He  was  a  good  master  and  cherished 
his  dependents. ' ' 

"That  is  true.  I  am  very  tired,  but  I  can  go  buck-shoot- 
ing to-morrow.  Give  me  the  little  rifle  that  I  use  for  black 
buck;  it  is  in  the  case  yonder," 

The  man  stooped  over  the  case,  handed  barrels,  stock,  and 
fore-end  to  Strickland,  who  fitted  them  together.  Yawning 
dolefully,  then  he  reached  down  to  tha  gun-case,  took  a  sohd 
drawn  cartridge,  and  slipped  it  into  the  breech  of  the  .360 
express. 

"And  Imray  Sahib  has  gone  to  Europe  secretly?  That  is 
very  strange,  Bahadur  Khan,  is  it  not?" 

"What  do  I  know  of  the  ways  of  the  white  man,  heaven- 
born?" 

"Very  little,  truly.  But  thou  shalt  know  more.  It  has 
reached  me  that  Imray  Sahib  has  returned  from  his  so  long 
journe3dngs,  and  that  even  now  he  lies  in  the  next  room^ 
waiting  his  servant." 

"Sahib!" 

The  lamplight  slid  along  the  barrels  of  the  rifle  as  they 
leveled  themselves  against  Bahadur  Khan's  broad  breast. 

"Go,  then,  and  look!"  said  Strickland,  "Take  a  lamp. 
Thy  master  is  tired,  and  he  waits.     Go ! ' ' 

The  man  picked  up  a  lamp  and  v/ent  into  the  dining-room, 
Strickland  foUovdng,  and  almost  pushing  him  with  the  muz-= 
zle  of  the  rifle.  He  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  black  depths 
behind  the  ceiling-cloth,  at  the  carcass  of  the  mangled  snake 


/T\iQe  Ouji>  people  49 

underfoot,  and  last,  a  gray  glaze  setting  on  his  face,  at  the 
thing  under  the  table-cloth. 

*'Hast  thou  seen?"  said  Strickland,  after  a  pause. 

''I  have  seen.  I  am  clay  in  the  white  man's  hands. 
"What  does  the  presence  do?" 

'*Hang  thee  within  a  month!     What  else?" 

**For  killing  him?  Fay,  sahib,  consider.  "Walking  among 
us,  his  servants,  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  my  child,  who  was 
four  years  old.  Him  he  bewitched,  and  in  ten  days  he  died 
of  the  fever.     My  child !" 

**"What  said  Imray  Sahib?" 

**He  said  he  was  a  handsome  child,  and  patted  him  on  the 
head;  wherefore  my  child  died.  Wherefore  I  killed  Imray 
Sabib  in  the  twilight,  when  he  came  back  from  office  and  was 
sleeping.  The  heaven-born  knows  all  things.  I  am  the 
servant  of  the  heaven-bom." 

Strickland  looked  at  me  above  the  rifle,  and  said,  in  the 
vernacular:  "Thou  art  witness  to  this  saying.  He  has 
killed." 

Bahadur  Khan  stood  ashen  gray  in  the  light  of  the  one 
lamp.     The  need  for  justification  came  upon  him  very  swiftly » 

"I  am  trapped,"  he  said,  "but  the  offense  was  that  man's. 
He  cast  an  evil  eye  upon  my  child,  and  I  killed  and  hid  him. 
Only  sucli  as  are  served  by  devils^"  he  glared  at  Tietjens^ 
crouched  stolidly  before  him,  *'only  such  could  know  what 
I  did." 

*  *  It  was  clever.  But  thou  shouldst  have  lashed  him  to  the 
beam  with  a  rope.  Kow,  thou  thyself  wilt  hang  hy  a  ropOe 
Orderly!" 

A  drowsy  policeman  answered  Strickland's  call.  He  was 
followed  by  another,  and  Tietjens  sat  still. 

"Take  him  to  the  station,"  said  Strickland.  "There  is  a 
case  toward." 

"Do  I  hang,  then?"  said  Bahadur  Khan,  making  no 
attempt  to  escape  and  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"If  the  sun  shines,  or  the  water  runs,  thou  wilt  hang," 
said  Strickland.  Bahadur  Khan  stepped  back  one  pace, 
Vol.  3.  3 


50  Tl/orl^s  of  F^udyard  t^iplii)^ 

quivered,  and  stood  still.     The  two  policemen  waited  further 
orders. 

^*Go!"  said  Strickland. 

"Kay;  but  I  go  very  swiftly,"  said  Bahadur  Khan. 
**Look!  I  am  even  now  a  dead  man." 

He  lifted  his  foot,  and  to  the  little  toe  there  clung  the  head 
of  the  half  "killed  snake,  firm  fixed  in  the  agony  of  death. 

"I  come  of  land-holding  stock,"  said  Bahadur  Khan, 
rocking  where  he  stood.  "It  were  a  disgrace  for  me  to  go  to 
the  public  scaffold,  therefore  I  take  this  way.  Be  it  remem ' 
bered  that  the  sahib's  shirts  are  correctly  enumerated,  and 
that  there  is  an  extra  piece  of  soap  in  his  wash-basin.  My 
child  was  bewitched,  and  I  slew  the  wizard.  Why  should 
you  seek  to  slay  me?  My  honor  is  saved,  and — and — I 
die." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  died  as  they  die  who  are  bitten 
by  the  little  kariat,  and  the  policemen  bore  him  and  the  thing 
under  the  table-cloth  to  their  appointed  places.  They  were 
needed  to  make  clear  the  disappearance  of  Imray. 

''This,"  said  Strickland,  very  calmly,  as  he  cHmbed  into 
bed,  "is  called  the  nineteenth  century.  Did  you  hear  what 
that  man  said?" 

''I  heard,"  I  answered.     "Imray  made  a  mistake." 

"Simply  and  solely  through  not  knowing  the  nature  and 
the  coincidence  of  a  httle  seasonal  fever.  Bahadur  Khan  had 
been  with  him  for  four  years." 

I  shuddered.  My  own  servant  had  been  with  me  for 
exactly  that  length  of  time.  When  I  went  over  to  my  own 
room  I  found  him  waiting,  impassive  as  the  copper  head  on 
a  penny,  to  pull  off  my  boots. 

"What  has  befallen  Bahadur  Khan?"  said  I. 

' '  He  was  bitten  by  a  snake  and  died ;  the  rest  the  sahib 
knows,"  was  the  answer. 

"And  how  much  of  the  matter  hast  thou  known?"* 

"As  much  as  might  be  gathered  from  one  coming  in  the 
twilight  to  seek  satisfaction.  Gently,  sahib.  Let  me  pull  oi 
those  boots." 


fT\lT)e  0\jjT)  people  61 

I  had  just  settled  to  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  when  I  heard 
Strickland  shouting  from  his  side  of  the  house : 

^'Tietjens  has  come  back  to  her  room!" 

And  so  she  had.  The  great  deerhound  was  couched  on 
her  own  bedstead,  on  her  own  blanket,  and  in  the  next  room 
the  idle,  empty  ceiling-cloth  wagged  light-heartedly  as  it 
flailed  on  the  tablee 


MOTI   GUJ— MUTINEER 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  coffee-planter  m  India  who 
wished  to  clear  some  forest  land  for  coffee-planting.  When 
he  had  cut  down  all  the  trees  and  burned  the  underwood,  the 
stumps  still  remained.  Dynamite  is  expensive  and  slow  fir© 
slow.  The  happy  medium  for  stump-clearing  is  the  lord  of 
all  beasts,  who  is  the  elephant.  He  will  either  pi^h  the 
stump  out  of  the  ground  with  his  tusks,  if  he  has  any,  or 
drag  it  out  with  ropes.  The  planter,  therefore,  hired  ele- 
phants by  ones  and  twos  and  threes,  and  fell  to  work.  The 
very  best  of  all  the  elephants  belonged  to  the  very  wossk  of 
all  the  drivers  or  mahouts;  and  this  superior  beast^saam® 
was  Moti  Guj.  He  was  the  absolute  property  of  his  mahout, 
which  would  never  have  been  the  case  under  native  rules  for 
Moti  Guj  was  a  creature  to  be  desired  by  kings^  and  his 
name,  being  translated,  meant  the  Pearl  Elephant.  Because 
the  British  government  was  in  the  land,  Deesa,  the  mahout, 
enjoyed  his  property  undisturbed.  He  was  dissipated.  When 
he  had  made  much  money  through  the  strength  of  his  ele. 
phant,  he  would  get  extremely  drunk  and  give  Moti  Guj  a 
beating  with  a  tent-peg  over  the  tender  nails  of  the  forefeet, 
Moti  Guj  never  trampled  the  life  out  of  Deesa  on  these  occa- 
sions,  for  he  knew  that,  after  the  beating  was  over,  Beesa 
would  embrace  his  trunk  and  weep  and  call  him  his  love  and 
his  life  and  the  liver  of  his  soul,  and  give  him  some  liquor, 
Moti  Guj  was  very  fond  of  liquor — arrack  for  choice,  though 
he  would  drink  palm-tree  toddy  if  nothing  better  offered. 


52  Worlds  of  r^udyard  I^iplii)^ 

Then  Deesa  would  go  to  sleep  between  Moti  Guj's  forefeet, 
and  as  Deesa  generally  chose  the  middle  of  the  public  road, 
and  as  Moti  Guj  mounted  guard  over  him,  and  would  not 
permit  horse,  foot,  or  cart  to  pass  by,  traffic  was  congested 
till  Deesa  saw  fit  to  wake  up. 

There  was  no  sleeping  in  the  daytime  on  the  planter's 
clearing :  the  wages  were  too  high  to  risk.  Deesa  sat  on 
Moti  Guj's  neck  and  gave  him  orders,  while  Moti  Guj 
rooted  up  the  stumps — for  he  owned  a  magnificent  pair  of 
tusks;  or  pulled  at  the  end  of  a  rope— for  he  had  a  magrifi- 
cent  pair  of  shoulders — while  Deesa  kicked  him  behind  the 
ears  and  said  he  was  the  king  of  elephants.  At  evening  time 
Moti  Guj  would  wash  down  his  three  hundred  pounds'  weight 
of  green  food  with  a  quart  of  arrack,  and  Deesa  would  take 
a  share,  and  sing  songs  between  Moti  Guj's  legs  till  it  was 
time  to  go  to  bed.  Once  a  week  Deesa  led  Moti  Guj  down 
to  the  river,  and  Moti  Guj  lay  on  his  side  luxuriously  in  the 
shallows,  while  Deesa  went  over  him  with  a  coir  swab  and 
a  brick.  Moti  Guj  never  mistook  the  pounding  blow  of  the 
latter  for  the  smack  of  the  former  that  warned  him  to  get  up 
and  turn  over  on  the  other  side.  Then  Deesa  would  look  at 
his  feet  and  examine  his  eyes  and  turn  up  the  fringes  of  his 
mighty  ears  in  case  of  sores  or  budding  ophthalmia.  After 
inspection  the  two  would  "come  up  with  a  song  from  the  4 
sea,"  Moti  Guj,  all  black  and  shining,  waving  a  torn  tree 
branch  twelve  feet  long  in  his  trunk,  and  Deesa  knotting  up 
his  own  long  wet  hair. 

It  was  a  peaceful,  well-paid  life  till  Deesa  felt  the  return 
of  the  desire  to  drink  deep.  He  wished  for  an  orgy.  The 
little  draughts  that  led  nowhere  were  taking  the  manhood 
out  of  him. 

He  went  to  the  planter,  and  *'My  mother's  dead,"  said 
he,  weeping. 

"She  died  on  the  last  plantation  two  months  ago,  and  she 
died  once  before  that  when  you  were  working  for  me  last 
year,"  said  the  planter,  who  knew  something  of  the  ways  of 
nativedom. 


/I\ira  OwT)  people  53 

**Then  it's  my  ruunV;,  and  she  was  just  the  same  as  a 
mother  to  me,"  said  Deesa,  weeping  more  than  ever.  **She 
has  left  eighteen  sme  U  children  entirely  without  breads  and 
it  is  I  who  must  fill  their  little  stomachs,"  said  Deesa,  beat- 
ing his  head  on  the  floor. 

^'Who  brought  yon  the  news?'^  said  the  planter, 

**The  post,"  said  Deesa. 

"There  hasn't  been  a  post  here  for  the  past  week.  Gel 
back  to  your  lines  r' 

"A  devastating  sickness  has  fallen  on  my  vill^e,  aiad  all 
my  wives  are  dyingj"  yelled  Deesa,  really  in  team  this  time, 

"Call  Chihun,  who  comes  from  Deesa's  village^"  said  the 
planter.     "Chihun,  has  this  man  got  a  wife?*^ 

"He?"  said  Chihun.  "IToc  N^ot  a  woman  of  our  Tillag© 
would  look  at  him.    They'd  sooner  marry  the  elephant.'^ 

Chihun  snorted.     Deesa  wept  and  bellowed. 

"You  will  get  into  a  diMculty  in  a  minute,"  said  tl^ 
planter,    "Go  back  to  your  work!" 

"E"ow  I  will  speak  Heaven's  truth/*  gulped  Dee^  with 
an  inspiration.  * '  I  haven' t  been  drunk  for  two  months,  I  de- 
sire to  depart  in  order  to  get  properly  drunk  afar  off  and  distant 
from  this  heavenly  plantation.   Thus  I  shall  caxiBe  no  trouble.  ^^ 

A  flickering  smile  crossed  the  planter's  face*  **Dee6a5" 
said  he,  "you've  spoken  the  truth,  and  I'd  give  you  leave 
on  the  spot  if  anything  could  be  done  with  Mot!  GuJ  whilo 
you're  away.    You  know  that  he  will  only  obey  your  orders.  *^ 

"May  the  light  of  the  heavens  live  forty  thousand  years. 
I  shall  be  absent  but  ten  little  days.  After  iha%  upon  my 
faith  and  honor  and  soul,  I  return.  As  to  the  inconsiderable 
interval,  have  I  the  gracious  permission  of  the  heaven-borB 
to  call  up  Moti  Guj?'' 

Permission  was  granted,  and  in  answer  to  Deesa's  shrill 
yell,  the  mighty  tusker  swung  out  of  the  shade  of  a  clump 
of  trees  where  he  had  been  squirting  dust  over  himd^If  till 
his  master  should  return. 

"Light  of  my  heart,  protector  of  the  drunken,  mountain 
of  might,  give  earl"  said  Deesa,  standing  in  front  of  him. 


0-1  U/orl^s  of  F^udyar  i  I^iplfi^^ 

Moti  Guj  gave  ear,  and  saluted  wiib  his  trunk.  **I  am 
going  away,"  said  Deesa. 

Moti  Guj's  eyes  twinkled.  He  lik  d  jaunts  as  well  as  his 
master.  One  could  snatch  all  manner  of  nice  things  from 
the  roadside  then. 

"But  you,  you  fussy  old  pig,  must  stay  behind  and  work." 

The  twinkle  died  out  as  Moti  Guj  tried  to  look  dehghted. 
He  hated  stump-hauling  on  the  plantation.     It  hurt  his  teeth. 

**I  shall  be  gone  for  ten  days,  oh.  delectable  one!  Hold 
up  your  near  forefoot  and  I'll  impress  the  fact  upon  it,  warty 
toad  of  a  dried  mud-puddle."  Deesa  took  a  tent-peg  and 
banged  Moti  Guj  ten  times  on  the  nails.  Moti  Guj  grunted 
and  shuffled  from  foot  to  foot. 

"Ten  days,"  said  Deesa,  "you  will  work  and  haul  and 
root  the  trees  as  Chihun  here  shall  order  you.  Take  up 
Chihun  and  set  him  on  your  neck!"  Moti  Guj  curled  the 
tip  of  his  trunk,  Chihun  put  his  foot  there,  and  was  swung 
on  to  the  neck.  Deesa  handed  Chihun  the  heavy  ankus— 
the  iron  elephant  goad. 

Chihun  thumped  Moti  Guj's  bald  head  as  a  paver  thumps 
a  curbstone. 

Moti  Guj  trumpeted. 

"Be  still,  hog  of  the  backwoods!  Chihun's  your  mahout 
for  ten  days.  And  now  bid  me  good-by,  beast  after  mine 
own  heart.  Oh,  my  lord,  my  king!  Jewel  of  all  created 
elephants,  lily  of  the  herd,  preserve  your  honored  health;  be 
virtuous.     Adieu ! ' ' 

Moti  Guj  lapped  his  trunk  round  Deesa  and  swung  him 
into  the  air  twice.     That  was  his  way  of  bidding  him  good-by. 

"He'll  work  now,"  said  Deesa  to  the  planter.  "Have  I 
leave  to  go?" 

The  planter  nodded,  and  Deesa  dived  into  the  woods. 
Moti  Guj  went  back  to  haul  stumps. 

Chihun  was  very  kind  to  him,  but  he  felt  unhappy  and 
forlorn  for  all  that.  Chihun  gave  him  a  ball  of  spices,  and 
tickled  him  under  the  chin,  and  Chihun's  little  baby  cooed 
to  him  after  work  was  over,  and  Chihun's  wife  called  him 


/T\ii)e  OwT)  people  55 

a  darling ;  but  Moti  Guj  was  a  bachelor  by  instinct,  as  Deesa 
was.  He  did  not  understand  the  domestic  emotions.  He 
wanted  the  light  of  his  universe  back  again— the  drink  and 
the  drunken  slumber,  the  savage  beatings  and  the  savage 
caresses. 

None  the  less  he  worked  well,  and  the  planter  wondered. 
Deesa  had  wandered  along  the  roads  till  he  met  a  marriage 
procession  of  his  own  caste,  and,  drinking,  dancing,  and  tip- 
pHng,  had  drifted  with  it  past  all  knowledge  of  the  lapse  of 
time. 

The  morning  of  the  eleventh  day  dawned,  and  there  re- 
turned no  Deesa.  Moti  Guj  was  loosed  from  his  ropes  for 
the  daily  stint.  He  swung  clear,  looked  round,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  began  to  walk  away,  as  one  having  business 
elsewhere. 

"Hi!  ho!  Come  back  you!"  shouted  Chihun.  "Come 
back  and  put  me  on  your  neck,  misborn  mountain !  Return, 
splendor  of  the  hillsides !  Adornment  of  all  India,  heave  to, 
or  I'll  bang  every  toe  off  your  fat  forefoot!" 

Moti  Guj  gurgled  gently,  but  did  not  obey.  Chihun  ran 
after  him  with  a  rope  and  caught  him  up. "  Moti  Guj  put  his 
ears  forward,  and  Chihun  knew  what  that  meant,  though  he 
tried  to  carry  it  off  with  high  words. 

"None  of  your  nonsense  with  me,"  said  he.  "To  your 
pickets,  devil- son!" 

"Hrrumph!"  said  Moti  Guj,  and  that  was  all — that  and 
the  forebent  ears. 

Moti  Guj  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  chewed  a  branch 
for  a  toothpick,  and  strolled  about  the  clearing,  making  fun 
of  the  other  elephants  who  had  just  set  to  work. 

Chihun  reported  the  state  of  affairs  to  the  planter,  who 
came  out  with  a  dog- whip  and  cracked  it  furiously.  Moti 
Guj  paid  the  white  man  the  compliment  of  charging  him 
Qearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across  the  clearing  and  ' '  Hrrumph- 
ing"  him  into  his  veranda.  Then  he  stood  outside  the  house, 
chuckling  to  himself  and  shaking  all  over  with  the  fun  of  it, 
as  an  elephant  will. 


56  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  K^plii)^ 

* '  We'll  thrash  him, ' '  said  the  planter.  *  *  He  shall  have  the 
finest  thrashing  ever  elephant  received.  Give  Kala  Nag  and 
!N"azim  twelve  foot  of  chain  apiece,  and  tell  them  to  lay  on 
twenty. ' ' 

Kala  ISTag — which  means  Black  Snake — and  ISTazim  were 
two  of  the  biggest  elephants  in  the  lines,  and  one  of  their 
duties  was  to  administer  the  graver  punishment,  since  no 
man  can  beat  an  elephant  properly. 

They  took  the  whipping-chains  and  rattled  them  in  their 
trunks  as  they  sidled  up  to  Moti  Guj,  meaning  to  hustle  him 
between  them.  Moti  Guj  had  never,  in  all  his  life  of  thirty- 
nine  years,  been  whipped,  and  he  did  not  intend  to  begin  a 
new  experience.  So  he  waited,  waving  his  head  from  right 
to  left,  and  measuring  the  precise  spot  in  Kala  !N'ag's  fat  side 
vfhere  a  blunt  tusk  could  sink  deepest.  Kala  Nag  had  no 
tusks;  the  chain  was  the  badge  of  his  authority;  but  for  all 
that,  he  swung  wide  of  Moti  Guj  at  the  last  minute,  and  tried 
to  appear  as  if  he  had  brought  the  chain  out  for  amusement. 
Nazim  turned  round  and  went  home  early.  He  did  not  feel 
fighting  fit  that  morning,  and  so  Moti  Guj  was  left  standing 
alone  with  his  ears  cocked. 

That  decided  the  planter  to  argue  no  more,  and  Moti  Guj 
rolled  back  to  his  amateur  inspection  of  the  clearing.  An 
elephant  who  will  not  work  and  is  not  tied  up  is  about  as 
manageable  as  an  eighty-one-ton  gun  loose  in  a  heavy  sea- 
way. He  slapped  old  friends  on  the  back  and  asked  them  if 
the  stumps  were  coming  away  easily ;  he  talked  nonsense  con- 
cerning labor  and  the  inalienable  rights  of  elephants  to  a  long 
** nooning";  and,  wandering  to  and  fro,  he  thoroughly  de- 
moralized the  garden  till  sundown,  when  he  returned  to  his 
picket  for  food. 

'*If  you  won't  work,  you  shan't  eat,"  said  Chihun,  an- 
grily. **You're  a  wild  elephant,  and  no  educated  animal  at 
all.     Go  back  to  your  jungle. " 

Chihun' s  Httle  brown  baby  was  rolling  on  the  floor  of  th© 
hut,  and  stretching  out  its  fat  arms  to  the  huge  shadow  in 
the  doorway.     Moti  Guj  knew  well  that  it  was  the  dearest 


■[T\iT)e  OwT)  people  5? 

thing  on  earth  to  Chihun.  He  swung  out  his  trunk  with  a 
fascinating  crook  at  the  end,  and  the  brown  baby  threw  itself, 
shouting,  upon  it.  Moti  Guj  made  fast  and  pulled  up  till  the 
brown  baby  was  crowing  in  the  air  twelve  feet  above  his 
father's  head. 

"Great  Lord!"  said  Chihun.  "Flour  cakes  of  the  best, 
twelve  in  number,  two  feet  across  and  soaked  in  rum,  shall 
be  yours  on  the  instant,  and  two  hundred  pounds  weight  of 
fresh-cut  young  sugar-cane  therewith.  Deign  only  to  put 
down  safely  that  insignificant  brat  who  is  my  heart  and  my 
life  to  me!" 

Moti  Guj  tucked  the  brown  baby  comfortably  between 
his  forefeet,  that  could  have  knocked  into  toothpicks  all 
Chihun's  hut,  and  waited  for  his  food.  He  eat  it,  and  the 
brown  baby  crawled  away.  Moti  Guj  dozed  and  thought  of 
Deesa.  One  of  many  mysteries  connected  with  the  elephant 
is  that  his  huge  body  needs  less  sleep  than  anything  else  that 
lives.  Four  or  five  hours  in  the  night  suffice — two  just  be- 
fore midnight,  lying  down  on  one  side ;  two  just  after  one 
o'clock,  lying  down  on  the  other.  The  rest  of  the  silent 
hours  are  filled  with  eating  and  fidgeting,  and  long  grum- 
bling soliloquies. 

At  midnight,  therefore,  Moti  Guj  strode  out  of  his  pick- 
ets, for  a  thought  had  come  to  him  that  Deesa  might  be  lying 
drunk  somewhere  in  the  dark  forest  with  none  to  look  after 
him.  So  all  that  night  he  chased  through  the  undergrowth, 
blowing  and  trumpeting  and  shaking  his  ears.  He  went 
.  down  to  the  river  and  blared  across  the  shallows  where  Deesa 
used  to  wash  him,  but  there  was  no  answer.  He  could  not 
find  Deesa,  but  he  disturbed  all  the  other  elephants  in  the 
lines,  and  nearly  frightened  to  death  some  gypsies  in  the 
woods. 

At  dawn  Deesa  returned  to  the  plantation.  He  had  been 
very  drunk  indeed,  and  he  expected  to  get  into  trouble  for 
outstaying  his  leave.  He  drew  a  long  breath  when  he  saw 
that  the  bungalow  and  the  plantation  were  still  uninjured, 
for  he  knew  something  of  Moti  Guj's  temper,  and  reported 


58  U/orl^s  of  l^adyard  \{ip\li)<^ 

himself  with  many  lies  and  salaams.  Moti  Guj  had  gone  to 
his  pickets  for  breakfast.  The  night  exercise  had  made  him 
hungry. 

"Call  up  your  beast,"  said  the  planter;  and  Deesa  shouted 
in  the  mysterious  elephant  language  that  some  mahouts  be- 
lieye  came  from  China  at  the  birth  of  the  world,  when  ele- 
phants and  not  men  were  masters.  Moti  Guj  heard  and 
came.  Elephants  do  not  gallop.  They  move  from  places 
at  varying  rates  of  speed.  If  an  elephant  wished  to  catch 
an  express  train  he  could  not  gallop,  but  he  could  catch  the 
train.  So  Moti  Guj  was  at  the  planter's  door  almost  before 
Chihun  noticed  that  he  had  left  his  pickets.  He  fell  into 
Deesa 's  arms  trumpeting  with  joy,  and  the  man  and  beast 
wept  and  slobbered  over  each  other,  and  handled  each  other 
from  head  to  heel  to  see  that  no  harm  had  befallen. 

"Now  we  will  get  to  work,"  said  Deesa.  "Lift  me  up^ 
my  son  and  my  joy!" 

Moti  Guj  swung  him  up,  and  the  two  went  to  the  coffee- 
clearing  to  look  for  difficult  stumps. 

The  planter  was  too  astonished  to  be  very  angry. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    MAVERICKS 

When  three  obscure  gentlemen  in  San  Francisco  argued 
on  insufficient  premises,  they  condemned  a  feUow  creature 
to  a  most  unpleasant  death  in  a  far  country  which  had  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  the  United  States.  They  foregath- 
ered at  the  top  of  a  tenement-house  in  Tehama  Street,  an 
unsavory  quarter  of  the  city,  and  there  calling  for  certain 
drinks,  they  conspired  because  they  were  conspirators  by 
trade,  officially  known  as  the  Third  Three  of  the  I.  A.  A.  — 
an  institution  for  the  propagation  of  pure  hght,  not  to  be  con- 
founded with  any  others,  though  it  is  affiliated  to  many,  i 
The  Second  Three  live  in  Montreal  and  work  among  the  poor 
there;   the  First  Three  have  their  home  in  'New  York,  not  \ 


/r\ii>e  OwT)  people  59 

far  from  Castle  Garden,  and  write  regularly  once  a  week  to 
a  small  house  near  one  of  the  big  hotels  at  Boulogne.  What 
happens  after  that,  a  particular  section  of  Scotland  Yard 
knows  too  well  and  laughs  at.  A  conspirator  detests  ridi- 
cule. More  men  have  been  stabbed  with  Lucrezia  Borgia 
daggers  and  dropped  into  the  Thames  for  laughing  at  head 
centers  and  triangles  than  for  betraying  secrets ;  for  this  is 
human  nature. 

The  Third  Three  conspired  over  whisky  cocktails  and  a 
clean  sheet  of  notepaper  against  the  British  Empire  and  all 
that  lay  therein.  This  work  is  very  like  what  men  without 
discernment  call  politics  before  a  general  election.  You  pick 
out  and  discuss  in  the  company  of  congenial  friends  all  the 
weak  points  in  your  opponents'  organization,  and  uncon- 
sciously dwell  upon  and  exaggerate  all  their  raishaps,  till  it 
seems  to  you  a  miracle  that  the  party  holds  together  for  an 
hour. 

*'Our  principle  is  not  so  much  active  demonstration — that 
we  leave  to  others^ — as  passive  embarrassment  to  weaken  and 
unnerve,"  said  the  first  man.  ''Wherever  an  organization 
is  crippled,  wherever  a  confusion  is  thrown  into  any  branch 
of  any  department,  we  gain  a  step  for  those  who  take  on  the 
work ;  we  are  but  the  forerunners. ' '  He  was  a  German  en- 
thusiast, and  editor  of  a  newspaper,  from  whose  leading 
articles  he  quoted  frequently. 

''That  cursed  empire  makes  so  many  blunders  of  her  own 
that  unless  we  doubled  the  year's  average  I  guess  it  wouldn't 
strike  her  anything  special  had  occurred,"  said  the  second 
man.  "Are  you  prepared  to  say  that  all  our  resources  are 
equal  to  blowing  off  the  muzzle  of  a  hundred-ton  gun  or 
spiking  a  ten-thousand-ton  ship  on  a  plain  rock  in  clear  day- 
light? They  can  beat  us  at  our  own  game.  Better  join 
hands  with  the  practical  branches ;  we're  in  funds  now.  Try 
and  direct  a  scare  in  a  crowded  street.  They  value  their 
greasy  hides. ' '  He  was  the  drag  upon  the  wheel,  and  an 
Americanized  Irishman  of  the  second  generation,  despising 
his  own  race  and  hating  the  other.     He  had  learned  caution. 


60  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplii?^ 

The  third  man  drank  his  cocktail  and  spoke  no  word. 
He  was  the  strategist,  but  unfortunately  his  knowledge  of 
life  was  limited.  He  picked  a  letter  from  his  breast-pocket 
and  threw  it  across  the  table.  That  epistle  to  the  heathen 
contained  some  very  concise  directions  from  the  First  Three 
in  !N"ew  York.     It  said : 

*'The  boom  in  black  iron  has  already  affected  the  eastern 
markets,  where  our  agents  have  been  forcing  down  the  En- 
glish-held stock  among  the  smaller  buyers  who  watch  the 
turn  of  shares.  Any  immediate  operations,  such  as  western 
bears,  would  increase  their  willingness  to  unload.  This, 
however,  cannot  be  expected  till  they  see  clearly  that  for- 
eign iron-masters  are  willing  to  co-operate.  Mulcahy  should 
be  dispatched  to  feel  the  pulse  of  the  market,  and  act 
accordingly.  Mavericks  are  at  present  the  best  for  our 
purpose. — P.  D.  Q." 

As  a  message  referring  to  an  iron  crisis  in  Pennsylvania 
it  was  interesting,  if  not  lucid.  As  a  new  departure  in 
organized  attack  on  an  outlying  EngHsh  dependency,  it  was 
more  than  interesting. 

The  first  man  read  it  through,  and  murmured  i 

^'Already?  Surely  they  are  in  too  great  a  hurry.  All 
that  Dhulip  Singh  could  do  in  India  he  has  done,  down  to 
the  distribution  of  his  photographs  among  the  peasantry. 
Ho!  Ho!  The  Paris  firm  arranged  that,  and  he  has  no 
substantial  money  backing  from  the  Other  Power.  Even 
our  agents  in  India  know  he  hasn't.  What  is  the  use  of  our 
organization  wasting  men  on  work  that  is  already  done?  Of 
course,  the  Irish  regiments  in  India  are  half  mutinous  as 
they  stand." 

This  shows  how  near  a  lie  may  come  to  the  truth.  An 
Irish  regiment,  for  just  so  long  as  it  stands  stiU,  is  generally 
a  hard  handful  to  control,  being  reckless  and  rough.  When, 
however,  it  is  moved  in  the  direction  of  musketry-fire,  it  be- 
comes strangely  and  unpatriotically  content  with  its  lot.  It 
has  even  been  heard  to  cheer  the  queen  with  enthusiasm  on 
these  occasions. 


fC[iT)e  OwT)  people  61 

But  the  notion  of  tampering  with  the  army  was,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  Tehama  Street,  an  altogether  sound  one. 
There  is  no  shadow  of  stabihty  in  the  pohcy  of  an  Enghsh 
government,  and  the  most  sacred  oaths  of  England  would, 
even  if  embossed  on  vellum,  find  very  few  buyers  among 
colonies  and  dependencies  that  have  suffered  from  vain  be- 
liefs. But  there  remains  to  England  always  her  army. 
That  cannot  change,  except  in  the  matter  of  uniform  and 
equipment.  The  oflScers  may  write  to  the  papers  demanding 
the  heads  of  the  Horse  Guards  in  default  of  cleaner  redress 
for  grievances;  the  men  may  break  loose  across  a  country 
town,  and  seriously  startle  the  publicans,  but  neither  officers 
nor  men  have  it  in  their  composition  to  mutiny  after  the 
Continental  manner.  The  English  people,  when  they  trouble 
to  think  about  the  army  at  all,  are,  and  with  justice,  abso- 
lutely assured  that  it  is  absolutely  trustworthy.  Imagine  for 
a  moment  their  emotions  on  realizing  that  such  and  such  a 
regiment  was  in  open  revolt  from  causes  directly  due  to  Eng- 
land's management  of  Ireland.  They  would  probably  send 
the  regiment  to  the  polls  forthwith,  and  examine  their  own 
consciences  as  to  their  duty  to  Erin,  but  they  would  never  be 
easy  any  more.  And  it  was  this  vague,  unhappy  mistrust 
that  the  I.  A.  A.  was  laboring  to  produce. 

' '  Sheer  waste  of  breath, ' '  said  the  second  man,  after  a 
pause  in  the  council.  "I  don't  see  the  use  of  tampering  with 
their  fool-army,  but  it  has  been  tried  before,  and  we  must 
try  it  again.  It  looks  well  in  the  reports.  If  we  send  one 
man  from  here,  you  may  bet  your  life  that  other  men  are 
going  too.     Order  up  Mulcahy." 

Th^y  ordered  him  up — a  shm,  shght,  dark-haired  young 
man,  devoured  with  that  bhnd,  rancorous  hatred  of  England 
that  only  reaches  its  full  growth  ac'^oss  the  Atlantic.  He  had 
sucked  it  from  his  mother's  breast  in  the  httle  cabin  at  the 
back  of  the  northern  avenues  of  New  York;  he  had  been 
taught  his  rights  and  his  wrongs,  in  German  and  Irish,  on 
the  canal  fronts  of  Chicago;  and  San  Francisco  held  men 
who  told  him  strange  and  awful  things  of  the  great  blind 


62  U/orl^s  of  Fjudyard  l^iplii>(J 

power  over  the  seas.  Once,  when  business  took  hun  across 
the  Atlantic,  he  had  served  in  an  Enghsh  regiment,  and  being 
insubordinate,  had  suffered  extremely.  He  drew  all  his  ideas 
of  England  that  were  not  bred  by  the  cheaper  patriotic  prints 
from  one  iron- fisted  colonel  and  an  unbending  adjutant.  He 
would  go  to  the  mines  if  need  be  to  teach  his  gospel.  And 
he  went  as  his  instructions  advised,  p.  d.  q. — which  means 
*'with  speed" — to  introduce  embarrassment  into  an  Irish 
regiment,  "already  half  mutinous,  quartered  among  Sikh 
peasantry,  all  wearing  miniatures  of  His  Highness  Dhulip 
Singh,  Maharaja  of  the  Punjab,  next  their  hearts,  and  all 
eagerly  expecting  his  arrival."  Other  information  equally 
valuable  was  given  him  by  his  masters.  He  was  to  be  cau- 
tious, but  never  to  grudge  expense  in  winning  the  hearts  of 
the  men  in  the  regiment.  His  mother  in  ITew  York  would 
supply  funds,  and  he  was  to  write  to  her  once  a  month.  Life 
is  pleasant  for  a  man  who  has  a  mother  in  New  York  to  send 
him  £200  a  year  over  and  above  his  regimental  pay. 

In  process  of  time,  thanks  to  his  intimate  knowledge  of 
drill  and  musketry  exercise,  the  excellent  Mulcahy,  wearing 
the  corporal's  stripe,  went  out  in  a  troop-ship  and  joined  her 
Majesty's  Royal  Loyal  Musketeers,  commonly  known  as  the 
"Mavericks,"  because  they  were  masterless  and  unbranded 
cattle — sons  of  small  farmers  in  County  Clare,  shoeless  vaga- 
bonds of  Kerry,  herders  of  Bally  vegan,  much  wanted  "moon- 
Ughters"  from  the  bare  rainy  headlands  of  the  south  coast, 
officered  by  O' Mores,  Bradys,  Hills,  Kilreas,  and  the  like.  I 
Never,  to  outward  seeming,  was  there  more  promising  mate- 
rial to  work  on.  The  First  Three  had  chosen  their  regiment 
well.  It  feared  nothing  that  moved  or  talked  save  the  colonel 
and  the  regimental  Roman  Catholic  chaplain,  the  fat  Father 
Dennis,  who  held  the  keys  of  heaven  and  hell,  and  glared 
like  an  angry  bull  when  he  desired  to  be  convincing.  Him 
also  it  loved  because  on  occasions  of  stress  he  was  wont  to 
tuck  up  his  cassock  and  charge  with  the  rest  into  the  mer- 
riest of  the  fray,  where  he  always  found,  good  man,  that  the 
saints  sent  him  a  revolver  when  there  was  a  fallen  private  to 


/I\ir>e  OwT)  people  68 

be  protected  or — but  this  came  as  an  after-thought — his  own 
gray  head  to  be  guarded. 

Cautiously  as  he  had  been  instructed,  tenderly  and  with 
much  beer,  Mulcahy  opened  his  projects  to  such  as  he  deemed 
fittest  to  Ksten.  And  these  were,  one  and  all,  of  that  quaint, 
crooked,  sweet,  profoundly  irresponsible,  and  profoundly  lov- 
able race  that  fight  like  fiends,  argue  hke  children,  reason 
like  women,  obey  like  men,  and  Jest  like  their  own  goblins 
of  the  wrath  through  rebellion,  loyalty,  want,  woe,  or  war. 
The  underground  work  of  a  conspiracy  is  always  dull,  and 
very  much  the  same  the  world  over.  At  the  end  of  six 
months — the  seed  always  falling  on  good  ground — Mulcahy 
spoke  almost  explicitly,  hinting  darkly  in  the  approved  fash- 
ion at  dread  powers  behind  him,  and  advising  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  mutiny.  Were  they  not  dogs,  evilly  treated? 
had  they  not  all  their  own  and  the  natural  revenges  to  sat- 
isfy? Who  in  these  days  could  do  aught  to  nine  hundred 
men  in  rebellion?  who,  again,  could  stay  them  if  they  broke 
for  the  sea,  licking  up  on  their  way  other  regiments  only  too 
anxious  to  join?  And  afterward  .  .  .  here  followed  windy 
promises  of  gold  and  preferment,  office  and  honor,  ever  dear 
to  a  certain  type  of  Irishman. 

As  he  finished  his  speech,  in  the  dusk  of  a  twilight,  to  his 
chosen  associates,  there  was  a  sound  of  a  rapidly  unslung 
belt  behind  him.  The  arm  of  one  Dan  Grady  flew  out  in 
the  gloom  and  arrested  something.     Then  said  Dan : 

"Mulcahy,  you're  a  great  man,  an'  you  do  credit  to  who- 
ever sent  you.  Walk  about  a  bit  while  we  think  of  it." 
Mulcahy  departed  elated.  He  knew  his  words  would  sink 
deep. 

"Why  the  triple-dashed  asterisks  did  ye  not  let  me  curl 
the  tripes  out  of  him?"  grunted  a  voice, 

"Because  I'm  not  a  fat-headed  fool.  Boys,  'tis  what  he's 
been  driving  at  these  six  months — our  superior  corpril,  with 
his  education,  and  his  copies  of  the  Irish  papers,  and  his 
everlasting  beer.  He's  been  sent  for  the  purpose,  and  that's 
where  the  money  comes  from.     Can  ye  not  see?     That  man's 


64  lI/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{\p\iT)<^ 

a  gold-mine,  which  Horse  Egan  here  would  have  destroyed 
with  a  belt-buckle.  It  would  be  throwing  away  the  gifts  of 
Providence  not  to  fall  in  with  his  little  plans.  Of  course 
we'll  mutiny  till  all's  dry.  Shoot  the  colonel  on  the  parade- 
ground,  massacre  the  company  officers,  ransack  the  arsenal, 
and  then — boys,  did  he  tell  you  what  next?  He  told  me  the 
other  night,  when  he  was  beginning  to  talk  wild.  Then  we're 
to  join  with  the  niggers,  and  look  for  help  from  Dhuhp  Singh 
and  the  Russians!" 

' '  And  spoil  the  best  campaign  that  ever  was  this  side  of 
hell!  Danny,  I'd  have  lost  the  beer  to  ha'  given  him  the 
belting  he  requires." 

"Oh,  let  him  go  this  a  while,  man!  He's  got  no — no 
constructiveness ;  but  that's  the  egg-meat  of  his  plan,  and 
you  must  understand  that  I'm  in  with  it,  an'  so  are  you. 
We'll  want  oceans  of  beer  to  convince  us — firmaments  full. 
We'll  give  him  talk  for  his  money,  and  one  by  one  all  the 
boys'U  come  in,  and  he'll  have  a  nest  of  nine  hundred  muti- 
neers to  squat  in  an'  give  drink  to." 

*'What  makes  me  kilhng  mad  is  his  wanting  us  to  do 
what  the  niggers  did  thirty  years  gone.  That  an'  his  pig's 
cheek  in  saying  that  other  regiments  would  come  along," 
said  a  Kerry  man. 

"That's  not  so  bad  as  hintin'  we  should  loose  off  at  the 
colonel." 

"Colonel  be  sugared!  I'd  as  soon  as  not  put  a  shot 
through  his  helmet,  to  see  him  jump  and  clutch  his  old 
horse's  head.  But  Mulcahy  talks  o'  shootin'  our  comp'ny 
orf'cers  accidental." 

"He  said  that,  did  he?"  said  Horse  Egan. 

"Somethin'  like  that,  anyways.  Can't  ye  fancy  ould 
Barber  Brady  wid  a  bullet  in  his  lungs,  coughin'  like  a  sick 
monkey  an'  sayin' :  'Bhoys,  I  do  not  mind  your  gettin' 
dhrunk,  but  you  must  hould  your  liquor  hke  men.  "  The 
man  that  shot  me  is  dhrunk.  I'll  suspend  investigations  for 
six  hours,  while  I  get  this  bullet  cut  out,  and  then — '  " 

"An'  then,"  continued  Horse  Egan,  for  the  peppery  ma- 


/I\ii}e  OxuT)  people  65 

jor's  peculiarities  of  speech  and  manner  were  as  well  fcaown 
as  his  tanned  face  —  "an'  then,  ye  dissolute,  half-baked, 
putty-faced  scum  o'  Connemara,  if  I  find  a  man  so  much 
as  lookin'  confused,  bedad  I'll  coort-martial  the  whole  com- 
pany. A  man  that  can't  get  over  his  liquor  in  six  hours  is 
not  fit  to  belong  to  the  Mavericks." 

A  shout  of  laughter  bore  witness  to  the  truth  of  the  sketch. 

"It's  pretty  to  think  of,"  said  the  Kerry  man  slowly. 
"Mulcahy  would  have  us  do  all  the  devilment,  and  get  clear 
himself,  someways.  He  wudn't  be  takin'  all  this  fool's 
throuble  in  shpoilin'  the  reputation  of  the  regiment." 

"Reputation  of  your  grandmother's  pig!"  said  Dan. 

"Well,  an'  he  had  a  good  reputation  too;  so  it's  all  right. 
Mulcahy  must  see  his  way  clear  out  behind  him,  or  he'd  not 
ha'  come  so  far,  talkin'  powers  of  darkness." 

"Did  you  hear  anything  of  a  regimental  court-martial 
among  the  Black  Boneens,  these  days?  Half  a  company  of 
'em  took  one  of  the  new  draft  an'  hanged  him  by  his  arms 
with  a  tent- rope  from  a  third-story  veranda.  They  gave  no 
reason  for  so  doin',  but  he  was  haK  dead.  I'm  thinking  that 
the  Boneens  are  short-sighted.  It  was  a  friend  of  Mulcahy's, 
or  a  man  in  the  same  trade.  They'd  a  deal  better  ha'  taken 
his  beer,"  returned  Dan,  reflectively. 

"Better  still  ha'  handed  him  up  to  the  colonel,"  said 
Horse  Egan,  "onless —  But  sure  the  news  wud  be  all  over 
the  oounthry  an'  give  the  reg'ment  a  bad  name." 

"An'  there'd  be  no  reward  for  that  man — ^but  he  went 
about  talkin',"  said  the  Kerry  man,  artlessly. 

"You  speak  by  your  breed,"  said  Dan,  with  a  laugh. 
"There  was  never  a  Kerry  man  yet  that  wudn't  sell  his  brother 
for  a  pipe  o'  tobacco  an'  a  pat  on  the  back  from  a  poHceman." 

"Thank  God  I'm  not  a  bloomin'  Orangeman,"  was  the 
answer. 

^"No,  nor  never  will  be,"  said  Dan.  "They  breed  men  in 
Ulster.     Would  you  like  to  thry  the  taste  of  one?" 

The  Kerry  man  looked  and  longed,  but  forebore.  The 
odds  of  battle  were  too  great. 


66  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip($ 

**Then  you'll  not  even  give  Mulcahy  a — a  strike  for  his 
money/'  said  the  voice  of  Horse  Egan,  who  regarded  what 
he  called  * 'trouble"  of  any  kind  as  the  pinnacle  of  felicity. 

Dan  answered  not  at  all,  but  crept  on  tiptoe,  with  large 
strides,  to  the  mess-room,  the  men  following.  The  rooin  was 
empty.  In  a  corner,  cased  like  the  King  of  Dahomey's  state 
umbrella,  stood  the  regimental  colors.  Dan  lifted  them 
tenderly,  and  unrolled  in  the  light  of  the  candles  the  record 
of  the  Mavericks — tattered,  worn,  and  hacked.  The  white 
satin  was  darkened  everywhere  with  big  brown  stains,  the 
gold  threads  on  the  crowned  harp  were  frayed  and  discolored, 
and  the  red  bull,  the  totem  of  the  Mavericks,  was  coffee-hued. 
The  stiff,  embroidered  folds,  whose  price  is  human  life, 
rustled  down  slowly.  The  Mavericks  keep  their  colors  long 
and  guard  them  very  sacredly. 

"Vittoria,  Salamanca,  Toulouse,  Waterloo,  Moodkee, 
Ferozshah,  and  Sobraon — that  was  fought  close  next  door 
here,  a.gainst  the  very  beggars  he  wants  us  to  join.  Inker- 
mann,  the  Alma,  Sebastopol!  What  are  those  little  busi- 
nesses compared  to  the  campaigns  of  General  Mulcahy?  The 
mut'ny,  think  o'  that;  the  mut'ny  an'  some  dirty  little  mat- 
ters in  Afghanistan,  and  for  that  an'  these  and  those" — Dan 
pointed  to  the  names  of  glorious  battles — "that  Yankee  man 
with  the  partin'  in  his  hair  comes  and  says  as  easy  as  'have 
a  drink'  .  .   .     Holy  Moses!  there's  the  captain !" 

But  it  was  the  mess-sergeant  who  came  in  just  as  the  men 
clattered  out,  and  found  the  colors  uncased. 

From  that  day  dated  the  mutiny  of  the  Mavericks,  to  the 
joy  of  Mulcahy  and  the  pride  of  his  mother  in  New  York — the 
good  lady  who  sent  the  money  for  the  beer.  !N"ever,  as  far  as 
words  went,  was  such  a  mutiny.  The  conspirators,  led  by 
Dan  Grady  and  Horse  Egan,  poured  in  daily.  They  were 
sound  men,  men  to  be  trusted,  and  they  all  wanted  blood  t 
but  first  they  must  have  beer.  They  cursed  the  queen,-  they 
mourned  over  Ireland,  they  suggested  hideous  plunder  of  the 
Indian  country-side,  and  then,  alasl  some  of  the  younger 
men  would  go  forth  and  wallow  on  the  ground  in  spasms  of 


/r\ir}e  Omjt)  people  67 

unlioly  laughter.  The  genius  of  the  Irish  for  conspiracies  is 
remarkable.  ]N"one  the  less,  they  would  swear  no  oaths  but 
those  of  their  own  making,  which  were  rare  and  curious,  and 
they  were  always  at  pains  to  impress  Mulcahy  with  the  risks 
they  ran.  Naturally  the  flood  of  beer  wrought  demoraliza- 
tion. But  Mulcahy  confused  the  causes  of  things,  and  when 
a  pot-valiant  Maverick  smote  a  servant  on  the  nose  or  called 
his  commanding  officer  a  bald  headed  old  lard-bladder,  and 
even  worse  names,  he  fancied  that  rebellion  and  not  liquor 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  outbreak.  Other  gentlemen  who 
have  concerned  themselves  in  larger  conspiracies  have  made 
the  same  error. 

The  hot  season,  in  which  they  protested  no  man  could 
rebel,  came  to  an  end,  and  Mulcahy  suggested  a  visible  re- 
turn for  his  teachings.  As  to  the  actual  upshot  of  the 
mutiny,  he  cared  nothing.  It  would  be  enough  if  the  En- 
glish, infatuatedly  trusting  to  the  integrity  of  their  army, 
should  be  startled  with  news  of  an  Irish  regiment  revolting 
from  political  considerations.  His  persistent  demands  would 
have  ended,  at  Dan's  instigation,  in  a  regimental  belting, 
which  in  all  probability  would  have  killed  him  and  cut  off 
the  supply  of  beer,  had  not  he  been  sent  on  special  duty  some 
fifty  miles  away  from  the  cantonment  to  cool  his  heels  in  a 
mud  fort  and  dismount  obsolete  artillery.  Then  the  colonel 
of  the  Mavericks,  reading  his  newspaper  diligently  and 
scenting  frontier  trouble  from  afar,  posted  to  the  army  head- 
quarters and  pleaded  with  the  commander  in-chief  for  certain 
privileges,  to  be  granted  under  certain  contingencies;  which 
contingencies  came  about  only  a  week  later  when  the  annual 
little  war  on  the  border  developed  itself  and  the  colonel  re- 
turned to  carry  the  good  news  to  the  Mavericks.  He  held 
the  promise  of  the  chief  for  active  service,  and  the  men  musi 
get  ready. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  Mulcahy,  an  unconsid- 
ered corporal — yet  great  in  conspiracy — returned  to  canton- 
ments, and  heard  sounds  of  strife  and  bowlings  from  afar  off. 
The  mutiny  had  broken  out,  and  the  barracks  of  the  Maver- 


68  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  t^iplii><J 

icks  were  one  whitewaslied  pandemonium.  A  private  tearing 
through  the  barrack  square  gasped  in  his  ear:  '* Service! 
Active  service!  It's  a  burnin'  shame."  Oh,  joy,  the  Mav- 
ericks had  risen  on  the  eve  of  battle !  They  would  not — noble 
and  loyal  sons  of  Ireland ! — serve  the  queen  longer.  The  news 
would  flash  through  the  country-side  and  over  to  England, 
and  he — Mulcahy — the  trusted  of  the  Third  Three,  had 
brought  about  the  crash.  The  private  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  square  and  cursed  colonel,  regiment,  officers,  and  doctor, 
particularly  the  doctor,  by  his  gods.  An  orderly  of  the  native 
cavalry  regiment  clattered  through  the  mob  of  soldiers.  He 
was  half  hfted,  half  dragged  from  his  horse,  beaten  on  the 
back  with  mighty  hand-clasps  till  his  eyes  watered,  and  called 
all  manner  of  endearing  names.  Yes,  the  Mavericks  had 
fraternized  with  the  native  troops.  "Who,  then,  was  the 
agent  among  the  latter  that  had  blindly  wrought  with 
Mulcahy  so  well? 

An  officer  slunk,  almost  ran,  from  the  mess  to  a  barrack. 
He  was  mobbed  by  the  infuriated  soldiery,  who  closed  round 
but  did  not  kill  him,  for  he  fought  his  way  to  shelter,  flying 
for  his  life,  Mulcahy  could  have  wept  with  pure  joy  and 
thankfulness.  The  very  prisoners  in  the  guard-room  were 
shaking  the  bars  of  their  cells  and  howHng  Hke  wild  beasts, 
and  from  every  barrack  poured  the  booming  as  of  a  big  war- 
drum. 

Mulcahy  hastened  to  his  own  barrack.  He  could  hardly 
hear  himself  speak.  Eighty  men  were  pounding  with  fist  and 
heel  the  tables  and  trestles — eighty  men  flushed  with  mutiny, 
stripped  to  their  shirt-sleeves,  their  knapsacks  half -packed 
for  the  march  to  the  sea,  made  the  two-inch  boards  thunder 
again  as  they  chanted,  to  a  tune  that  Mulcahy  knew  well,  the 
Sacred  War  Song  of  the  Mavericks : 

"Listen  in  the  north,  my  boys,  there's  trouble  on  the  wind; 
Tramp  o'  Cossacks'  hoofs  in  front,  gray  great-coats  be- 
hind. 
Trouble  in  the  frontier  of  a  most  amazin'  kind, 
Trouble  on  the  water  o'  the  Oxus!" 


/I\ir?e  Ovui)  people  69 

Then  as  a  table  broke  under  the  furious  accompaniment : 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  it's  north  by  west  we  go; 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  the  chance  we  wanted  so ; 
Let  'em  hear  the  chorus  from  Umballa  to  Moscow, 
As  we  go  marching  to  the  Kremlin." 

*' Mother  of  all  the  saints  in  bhss  and  all  the  devils  in  cin- 
ders, where's  my  fine  new  sock  widout  the  heel?"  howled 
Horse  Egan,  ransacking  everybody's  knapsack  but  his  own. 
He  was  engaged  in  making  up  deficiencies  of  kit  preparatory 
to  a  campaign,  and  in  that  employ  he  steals  best  who  steals 
last.  "Ah,  Mulcahy,  you're  in  good  time,"  he  shouted. 
"  We've  got  the  route,  and  we're  off  on  Thursday  for  a  picnic 
wid  the  Lancers  next  door. ' ' 

An  ambulance  orderly  appeared  with  a  huge  basket  full 
of  lint  rolls,  provided,  by  the  forethought  of  the  queen,  for 
such  as  might  need  them  later  on.  Horse  Egan  unrolled  his 
bandage  and  flickered  it  under  Mulcahy' s  nose,  chanting : 

"  'Sheep's  skin  an'  bees'-wax,  thunder,  pitch,  and  plaster; 
The  more  you  try  to  pull  it  off,  the  more  it  sticks  the  faster. 
As  I  was  goin'  to  New  Orleans — ' 

You  know  the  rest  of  it,  my  Irish- American-Jew  boy.  By 
gad,  ye  have  to  fight  for  the  queen  in  the  inside  av  a  fort- 
night, my  darlin' . ' ' 

A  roar  of  laughter  interrupted.  Mulcahy  looked  vacantly 
down  the  room.  Bid  a  boy  defy  his  father  when  the  panto- 
mime-cab is  at  the  door,  or  a  girl  develop  a  will  of  her  own 
when  her  mother  is  putting  the  last  touches  to  the  first  ball- 
dress,  but  do  not  ask  an  Irish  regiment  to  embark  upon 
mutiny  on  the  eve  of  a  campaign;  when  it  has  fraternized 
with  the  native  regiment  that  accompanies  it,  and  driven  its 
officers  into  retirement  with  ten  thousand  clamorous  ques- 
tions, and  the  prisoners  dance  for  joy,  and  the  sick  men  stand 
in  the  open,  calling  down  all  known  diseases  on  the  head  of 
the  doctor  who  has  certified  that  they  are  "medically  unfit 
for  active  service."  At  even  the  Mavericks  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  mutineers  by  one  so  unversed  in  their  natures  as 


70  U/orl^s  of  l^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

Mulcahy.  At  dawn  a  girls'  school  might  have  learned  de- 
portment from  them.  They  knew  that  their  colonel's  hand 
had  closed,  and  that  he  who  broke  that  iron  discipHne  would 
not  go  to  the  front.  Nothing  in  the  world  will  persuade  one 
of  our  soldiers  when  he  is  ordered  to  the  north  on  the  smallest 
of  affairs  that  he  is  not  immediately  going  gloriously  to  slay 
Cossacks  and  cook  his  kettles  in  the  palace  of  the  czar.  A 
few  of  the  younger  men  mourned  for  Mulcahy's  beer,  because 
the  campaign  was  to  be  conducted  on  strict  temperance  prin- 
ciples, but,  as  Dan  and  Horse  Egan  said  sternly:  "We've 
got  the  beerman  with  us;  he  shall  drink  now  on  his  own 
hook." 

Mulcahy  had  not  taken  into  account  the  possibility  of 
being  sent  on  active  service.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  not  go  under  any  circiunstances ;  but  fortune  was 
against  him. 

"Sick — you?"  said  the  doctor,  who  had  served  an  unholy 
apprenticeship  to  his  trade  in  Tralee  poor-houses.  "You're 
only  homesick,  and  what  you  call  varicose  veins  come  from 
overeating.  A  Httle  gentle  exercise  will  cure  that."  And 
later:  "Mulcahy,  my  man,  everybody  is  allowed  to  apply 
for  a  sick  certificate  07ice.  If  he  tries  it  twice,  we  call  him 
by  an  ugly  name.  Go  back  to  your  duty,  and  let's  hear  no 
more  of  your  diseases." 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  Horse  Egan  enjoyed  the  study 
of  Mulcahy's  soul  in  those  days,  and  Dan  took  an  equal 
interest.  Together  they  would  communicate  to  their  corporal 
all  the  dark  lore  of  death  that  is  the  portion  of  those  who 
have  seen  men  die.  Egan  had  the  larger  experience,  but 
Dan  the  finer  imagination.  Mulcahy  shivered  when  the 
former  spoke  of  the  knife  as  an  intimate  acquaintance,  or 
the  latter  dwelt  with  loving  particularity  on  the  fate  of  those 
who,  wounded  and  helpless,  had  been  overlooked  by  the 
ambulances,  and  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Afghan 
women-folk. 

Mulcahy  knew  that  the  mutiny,  for  the  present  at  least, 
was  dead.     Knew,  too,  that  a  change  had  come  over  Dan's 


/T\ii?e  OwT)  people  71 

usually  respectful  attitude  toward  him,  and  Horse  Egan's 
laughter  and  frequent  allusions  to  abortive  conspiracies  em- 
phasized all  that  the  conspirator  had  guessed.  The  horrible 
fascination  of  the  death  stories,  however,  made  him  seek 
their  society.  He  learned  much  more  than  he  had  bargained 
for ;  and  in  this  manner.  It  was  on  the  last  night  before  the 
regiment  entrained  to  the  front.  The  barracks  were  stripped 
of  everything  movable,  and  the  men  were  too  excited  to  sleep. 
The  bare  walls  gave  out  a  heavy  hospital  smell  of  chloride  of 
lime — a  stench  that  depresses  the  soul. 

"And  what,"  said  Mulcahy  in  an  awestricken  whisper, 
after  some  conversation  on  the  eternal  subject,  ''are  you 
going  to  do  to  me,  Dan?"  This  might  have  been  the  lan- 
guage of  an  able  conspirator  conciliating  a  weak  spirit. 

"You'll  see,"  said  Dan,  grimly,  turning  over  in  his  cot, 
"or  I  rather  shud  say  you'll  not  see." 

This  was  hardly  the  language  of  a  weak  spirit.  Mulcahy 
shook  under  the  bed-clothes. 

"Be  easy  with  him,"  put  in  Egan  from  the  next  cot.  "He 
has  got  his  chanst  o'  goin'  clean.  Listen,  Mulcahy;  all  we 
want  is  for  the  good  sake  of  the  regiment  that  you  take  your 
death  standing  up,  as  a  man  shud.  There  be  heaps  an'  heaps 
of  enemy — plenshus  heaps.  Go  there  an'  do  all  you  can  and 
die  decent.  You'll  die  with  a  good  name  there.  'Tis  not  a 
hard  thing  considerin'." 

Again  Mulcahy  shivered. 

"And  how  could  a  man  wish  to  die  better  than  fightin'?" 
added  Dan,  consolingly. 

"And  if  I  won't?"  said  the  corporal  in  a  dry  whisper. 

"There'll  be  a  dale  of  smoke,"  returned  Dan,  sitting  up 
and  ticking  off  the  situation  on  his  fingers,  "sure  to  be,  an' 
the  noise  of  the  firin'  '11  be  tremenjus,  an'  we'll  be  running 
about  up  and  down,  the  regiment  will.  But  we,  Horse  and  I 
—we'll  stay  by  you,  Mulcahy,  and  never  let  you  go.  Maybe 
there'll  be  an  accident." 

"It's  playing  it  low  on  me.  Let  me  go.  For  pity's  sake, 
let  me  go !     I  never  did  you  harm,  and — ^and  I  stood  you  as 


72  U/orKs  of  F^adyard  l^iplip<;5 

mucti  beer  as  I  could.  Oh,  don't  be  hard  on  me,  Dan !  You 
are — you  were  in  it,  too.  You  won't  kill  me  up  there,  will 
you?" 

''I'm  not  thinkin'  of  the  treason;  though  you  shud  be 
glad  any  honest  boys  drank  with  you.  It's  for  the  regiment. 
We  can't  have  the  shame  o'  you  bringin'  shame  on  us.  You 
went  to  the  doctor  quiet  as  a  sick  cat  to  get  and  stay  behind 
an'  Hve  with  the  women  at  the  depot — you  that  wanted  us  to 
run  to  the  sea  in  wolf -packs  like  the  rebels  none  of  your  black 
blood  dared  to  be !  But  we  knew  about  your  goin'  to  the 
doctor,  for  he  told  it  in  mess,  and  it's  all  over  the  regiment, 
Bein'  as  we  are  your  best  friends,  we  didn't  allow  any  one 
to  molest  you  yet.  We  will  see  to  you  ourselves.  Fight 
which  you  will — us  or  the  enemy — you'll  never  lie  in  that 
cot  again,  and  there's  more  glory  and  maybe  less  kicks  from 
fighting  the  enemy.     That's  fair  speakin'." 

"And  he  told  us  by  word  of  mouth  to  go  and  join  with 
the  niggers — you've  forgotten  that,  Dan,"  said  Horse  Egan, 
to  justify  sentence. 

''What's  the  use  of  plaguin'  the  man?  One  shot  pays  for 
all.  Sleep  ye  sound,  Mulcahy.  But  you  understand,  do  ye 
not?" 

Mulcahy  for  some  weeks  understood  very  little  of  any- 
thing at  all  save  that  ever  at  his  elbow,  in  camp,  or  at 
parade,  stood  two  big  men  with  soft  voices  adjuring  him  to 
commit  hari-kari  lest  a  worse  thing  should  happen — to  die 
for  the  honor  of  the  regiment  in  decency  among  the  nearest 
knives.  But  Mulcahy  dreaded  death.  He  remembered  cer- 
tain things  that  priests  had  said  in  his  infancy,  and  his  mother 
— not  the  one  at  New  York — starting  from  her  sleep  with 
shrieks  to  pray  for  a  husband's  soul  in  torment.  It  is  well 
to  be  of  a  cultured  intelligence,  but  in  time  of  trouble  the 
weak  human  mind  returns  to  the  creed  it  sucked  in  at  the 
breast,  and  if  that  creed  be  not  a  pretty  one,  trouble  follows. 
Also,  the  death  he  would  have  to  face  would  be  physically 
painful.  Most  conspirators  have  large  imaginations.  Mul- 
cahy could  see  himself,  as  he  lay  on  the  earth  in  the  night, 


/I\ipe  Omjt)  people  73 

dying  by  various  causes.  They  were  all  horrible ;  the  mother 
in  New  York  was  very  far  away,  and  the  regiment,  the  en- 
gine that,  once  you  fall  in  its  grip,  moves  you  forward 
whether  you  will  or  won't,  was  daily  coming  closer  to  the 
enemy ! 

They  were  brought  to  the  field  of  Marzun-Katai,  and  with 
the  Black  Boneens  to  aid,  they  fought  a  fight  that  has  never 
been  set  down  in  the  newspapers.  In  response,  many  beHeve, 
to  the  fervent  prayers  of  Father  Dennis,  the  enemy  not  only 
elected  to  fight  in  the  open,  but  made  a  beautiful  fight,  as 
many  weeping  Irish  mothers  knew  later.  They  gathered 
behind  walls  or  flickered  across  the  open  in  shouting  masses, 
and  were  pot-vahant  in  artillery.  It  was  expedient  to  hold 
a  large  reserve  and  wait  for  the  psychological  moment  that 
was  being  prepared  by  the  shrieking  shrapnel.  Therefore 
the  Mavericks  lay  down  in  open  order  on  the  brow  of  a  hill 
to  watch  the  play  till  their  call  should  come.  Father  Dennis, 
whose  place  was  in  the  rear,  to  smooth  the  trouble  of  the 
wounded,  had  naturally  managed  to  make  his  way  to  the 
foremost  of  his  boys,  and  lay,  like  a  black  porpoise,  at  length 
on  the  grass.  To  him  crawled  Mulcahy,  ashen- gray,  de- 
manding absolution. 

*'Wait  till  you're  shot,"  said  Father  Dennis,  sweetly. 
"There's  a  time  for  everything." 

Dan  Grady  chuckled  as  he  blew  for  the  fiftieth  time  into 
the  breech  of  his  speckless  rifle.  Mulcahy  groaned  and  buried 
-his  head  in  his  arms  till  a  stray  shot  spoke  Hke  a  snipe  imme- 
diately above  his  head,  and  a  general  heave  and  tremor  rip- 
pled the  line.  Other  shots  followed,  and  a  few  took  effect, 
as  a  shriek  or  a  grunt  attested.  The  officers,  who  had  been 
lying  down  with  the  men,  rose  and  began  to  walk  steadily 
up  and  down  the  front  of  their  companies. 

This  maneuver,  executed  not  for  pubhcation,  but  as  a 
guarantee  of  good  faith,  to  soothe  men,  demands  nerve. 
You  must  not  hurry,  you  must  not  look  nervous,  though  you 
know  that  you  are  a  mark  for  every  rifle  within  extreme 
Vol.  3  4 


74  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{ipUi)<!^ 

range;  and,  above  all,  if  you  are  smitten  you  must  make  as 
little  noise  as  possible  and  roll  inward  through  the  files.  It 
is  at  this  hour,  when  the  breeze  brings  the  first  salt  whiff  of 
the  powder  to  noses  rather  cold  at  the  tips,  and  the  eye  can 
quietly  take  in  the  appearance  of  each  red  casualty,  that  the 
strain  on  the  nerves  is  strongest.  Scotch  regiments  can  en- 
dure for  half  a  day,  and  abate  no  whit  of  their  zeal  at  the 
end;  English  regiments  sometimes  sulk  under  punishment, 
while  the  Irish,  like  the  French,  are  apt  to  run  forward  by 
ones  and  twos,  which  is  just  as  bad  as  running  back.  The 
truly  wise  commandant  of  highly  strung  troops  allows  them 
in  seasons  of  waiting  to  hear  the  sound  of  their  own  voices 
uplifted  in  song.  There  is  a  legend  of  an  English  regiment 
that  lay  by  its  arms  under  fire  chanting  ' '  Sam  Hall, ' '  to  the 
horror  of  its  newly  appointed  and  pious  colonel.  The  Black 
Boneens,  who  were  suffering  more  than  the  Mavericks,  on  a 
hiU  half  a  mile  away,  began  presently  to  explain  to  all  who 
cared  to  listen : 

"We'll  sound  the  jubilee,  from  the  center  to  the  sea. 
And  Ireland  shall  be  free,  says  the  Shan-van- Voght. " 

"Sing,  boys,"  said  Father  Dennis,  softly.  *'It  looks  as 
if  we  cared  for  their  Afghan  peas." 

Dan  Grady  raised  himself  to  his  knees  and  opened  his 
mouth  in  a  song  imparted  to  him,  as  to  most  of  his  comrades, 
in  the  strictest  confidence  by  Mulcahy — that  Mulcahy  then 
lying  limp  and  fainting  on  the  grass,  the  chill  fear  of  death 
upon  him. 

Company  after  company  caught  up  the  words  which,  the 
I.  A.  A.  say,  are  to  herald  the  general  rising  of  Erin,  and  to 
breathe  which,  except  to  those  duly  appointed  to  hear,  is 
death.     Wherefore  they  are  printed  in  this  place : 

"  The  Saxon  in  heaven's  just  balance  is  weighed. 

His  doom,  hke  Belshazzar's,  in  death  has  been  cast, 
And  the  hand  of  the  'venger  shall  never  be  stayed 
Till  his  race,  faith,  and  speech  are  a  dream  of  the  past." ' 


[T\ir)e  Owt)  people  75 

They  were  heart-filling  Hnes,  and  they  ran  with  a  swirl ; 
the  I.  A.  A.  are  better  served  by  pens  than  their  petards. 
Dan  clapped  Mulcahy  merrily  on  the  back,  asking  him  to 
sing  up.  The  officers  lay  down  again.  There  was  no  need 
to  walk  any  more.  Their  men  were  soothing  themselves 
thunderously,  thus: 

*'St.  Mary  in  heaven  has  written  the  vow 

That  the  land  shall  not  rest  till  the  heretic  blood, 
From  the  babe  at  the  breast  to  the  hand  at  the  plow, 
Has  rolled  to  the  ocean  hke  Shannon  in  flood!" 

*'I'll  speak  to  you  after  all's  over,"  said  Father  Dennis, 
authoritatively,  in  Dan's  ear.  "What's  the  use  of  confess- 
ing to  me  when  you  do  this  foolishness?  Dan,  you've  been 
playing  with  fire  I  I'll  lay  you  more  penance  in  a  week 
than—" 

"Oome  along  to  purgatory  with  us,  father  dear.  The 
Boneens  are  on  the  move;  they'll  let  us  go  now!" 

The  regiment  rose  to  the  blast  of  the  bugle  as  one  man; 
but  one  man  there  was  who  rose  more  swiftly  than  all  the 
others,  for  half  an  inch  of  bayonet  was  in  the  fleshy  part  of 
his  leg. 

"You've  got  to  do  it,"  said  Dan,  grimly.  "Do  it  decent, 
anyhow;"  and  the  roar  of  the  rush  drowned  his  words  as  the 
rear  companies  thrust  forward  the  first,  still  singing  as  they 
swung  down  the  slope : 

"From  the  child  at  the  breast  to  the  hand  at  the  plow, 
Has  rolled  to  the  ocean  like  Shannon  in  flood!" 

They  should  have  sung  it  in  the  face  of  England,  not  of 
the  Afghans,  whom  it  impressed  as  much  as  did  the  wild 
Irish  yell. 

"They  came  down  singing,"  said  the  unofficial  report  of 
the  enemy,  borne  from  village  to  village  next  day.  "They 
continued  to  sing,  and  it  W8.s  written  that  our  men  could  not 
abide  when  they  came.  It  is  believed  that  there  was  magic 
in  the  aforesaid  song." 

Dan  and  Horse  Egan  kept  themselves  in  the  neighbor- 


76  U/orKs  of  I^adyard  l^iplir?($ 

hood  of  Mulcahy.  Twice  the  man  would  have  bolted  back 
in  the  confusion.  Twice  he  was  heaved  like  a  half-drowned 
kitten  into  the  unpaintable  inferno  of  a  hotly  contested  charge. 

At  the  end,  the  panic  excess  of  his  fear  drove  him  into 
madness  beyond  all  human  courage.  His  eyes  staring  at 
nothing,  his  mouth  open  and  frothing,  and  breathing  as  one 
in  a  cold  bath,  he  went  forward  demented,  while  Dan  toiled 
after  him.  The  charge  was  checked  at  a  high  mud  wall.  It 
was  Mulcahy  that  scrambled  up  tooth  and  nail  and  heaved 
down  among  the  bayonets  the  amazed  Afghan  who  barred 
his  way.  It  was  Mulcahy,  keeping  to  the  straight  line  of 
the  rabid  dog,  led  a  collection  of  ardent  souls  at  a  newly  un- 
masked battery,  and  flung  himself  on  the  muzzle  of  a  gun  as 
his  companions  danced  among  the  gunners.  It  was  Mulcahy 
who  ran  wildly  on  from  that  battery  into  the  open  plain  where 
the  enemy  were  retiring  in  sullen  groups.  His  hands  were 
empty,  he  had  lost  helmet  and  belt,  and  he  was  bleeding 
from  a  wound  in  the  neck.  Dan  and  Horse  Egan,  panting 
and  distressed,  had  thrown  themselves  down  on  the  ground 
by  the  captured  guns,  when  they  noticed  Mulcahy's  flight. 

'^Mad,"  said  Horse  Egan,  critically.  "Mad  with  fear! 
He's  going  straight  to  his  death,  an'  shouting's  no  use." 

"Let  him  go.  "Watch  now!  If  we  fire  we'll  hit  him 
maybe. ' ' 

The  last  of  a  hurrying  crowd  of  Afghans  turned  at  the 
noise  of  shod  feet  behind  him,  and  shifted  his  knife  ready  to 
hand.  This,  he  saw,  was  no  time  to  take  prisoners.  Mul- 
cahy ran  on,  sobbing,  and  the  straight-held  blade  went  home 
through  the  defenseless  breast,  and  the  body  pitched  forward 
almost  before  a  shot  from  Dan's  rifle  brought  down  the  slayer 
and  still  further  hurried  the  Afghan  retreat.  The  two  Irish- 
men went  out  to  bring  in  their  dead. 

' '  He  was  given  the  point,  and  that  was  an  easy  death, '  * 
said  Horse  Egan,  viewing  the  corpse.  "But  would  you  ha' 
shot  him,  Danny,  if  he  had  lived?" 

"He  didn't  live,  so  there's  no  sa^dn'.  But  I  doubt  I  wud 
have,  bekase  of  the  fun  he  gave  us — let  alone  the  beer.     Hike 


/I\ir)e  OwT)  people  77 

up  his  legs,  Horse,  and  we'll  bring  him  in.  Perhaps  'tis  bet- 
ter this  way. ' ' 

They  bore  the  poor  limp  body  to  the  mass  of  the  regiment, 
lolling  open-mouthed  on  their  rifles ;  and  there  was  a  general 
snigger  when  one  of  the  younger  subalterns  said:  *'That  was 
a  good  man!" 

"Phew !"  said  Horse  Egan  when  a  burial  party  had  taken 
over  the  burden.  "I'm  powerful  dhry,  and  this  reminds  me, 
therein  be  no  more  beer  at  all." 

"Fwhy  not?"  said  Dan,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he 
stretched  himseK  for  rest.  "Aro  we  not  conspirin'  all  we 
can,  an'  while  we  conspire  are  've  not  entitled  to  free  dhrinks? 
"Sure  his  ould  mother  in  'New  York  would  not  let  her  Fon's 
comrades  perish  of  drouth — ii  she  can  be  reached  at  th  3  end 
of  a  letter." 

"You're  a  janius,"  said  Horse  Egan.  "O'  coorse  she 
will  not.  I  wish  this  crool  war  was  over,  an'  we'd  get  back 
to  canteen.  FaHh,  the  commander-in-chief  ought  to  be 
hanged  on  his  cwn  little  sword-belt  for  makin'  us  work 
on  wather." 

The  Mavericks  were  generally  of  Horse  Egan's  opinion. 
So  they  made  haste  to  g  3t  their  work  done  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, and  their  industry  was  rewarded  by  unexpected  peace, 
"We  can  fight  the  sons  of  Adam,"  ^aid  the  tribesmen,  "but 
we  cannot  fight  the  sonf  of  Eblis,  and  this  regiment  never 
stays  still  in  one  place.  Let  us  therefore  come  in."  They 
came  in,  and  "this  regiment"  withdrew  to  conspire  under 
the  leadership  of  Dan  Grady. 

Excellent  as  a  subordinate,  Dan  failed  altogether  as  a 
chief -in-command — possibly  because  he  was  too  much  swayed 
by  the  advice  of  the  only  man  in  the  regiment  who  could  per- 
petrate more  than  one  kind  of  handwriting.  The  same  mail 
that  bore  to  Mulcahy's  mother  in  New  York  a  letter  from 
the  colonel,  telling  her  how  valiantly  her  son  had  fought  for 
the  queen,  and  how  assuredly  he  would  have  been  recom- 
mended for  the  Victoria  Cross  had  he  survived,  carried  a 
communication  signed,  I  grieve  to  say,  by  that  same  colonel 


78  U/orks  of  r^udyard  \{ip\iT)<^ 

and  all  the  officers  of  the  regiment,  explaining  their  willing- 
ness to  do  *' anything  which  is  contrary  to  the  regulations 
and  all  kinds  of  revolutions"  if  only  a  little  money  could  be 
forwarded  to  cover  incidental  expenses.  Daniel  Grady, 
Esquire,  would  receive  funds,  vice  Mulcahy,  who  *'was 
unwell  at  this  present  time  of  writing." 

Both  letters  were  forwarded  from  Few  York  to  Tehama 
Street,  San  Francisco,  with  marginal  comments  as  brief  as 
they  were  bitter.  The  Third  Three  read  and  looked  at  each 
other.  Then  the  Second  Conspirator — he  who  believed  in 
"joining  hands  with  the  practical  branches" — began  to 
laugh,  and  on  recovering  his  gravity,  said:  "Gentlemen, 
I  consider  this  will  be  a  le&son  to  us.  We're  left  again. 
These  cursed  Irish  have  let  us  down.  I  knew  they  would, 
but" — here  he  laughed  afresh — "I'd  give  considerable  to 
know  what  was  at  the  back  of  it  all." 

His  curiosity  would  have  been  satisfied  had  he  seen  Dan 
Grady,  discredited  regimental  conspirator,  trying  to  explain 
to  his  thirsty  comrades  in  India  the  noii-arrival  of  funds 
from  Kew  York. 


AT   THE   END   OF   THE   PASSAGE 

Four  men,  theoretically  entitled  to  "life,  liberty,  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness,"  sat  at  a  table  playing  whist.  The 
thermometer  marked — for  them— one  hundred  and  one  de- 
grees of  heat.  The  room  was  darkened  till  it  was  only  just 
possible  to  distinguish  the  pip^'-  of  the  cards  and  the  very 
white  faces  of  the  players.  A  tattered,  rotten  punkah  of 
whitewashed  calico  was  puddling  the  hot  air  and  whining 
dolefully  at  each  stroke.  Outside  lay  gloom  of  a  November 
day  in  London.  There  was  neither  sky,  sun,  nor  horizon — 
nothing  but  a  brown-purple  haze  of  heat.  It  was  as  though 
the  earth  were  dying  of  apoplexy. 

From  time  to  time  clouds  of  tawny  dust  rose  from  the 


/I\ii>e  OwT)  people  79 

ground  without  wind  or  warning,  flung  themselves  tablecloth- 
wise  among  the  tops  of  the  parched  trees,  and  came  down 
again.  Then  a  whirling  dust-devil  would  scutter  across  the 
plain  for  a  couple  of  miles,  break,  and  fall  outward,  though 
there  was  nothing  to  check  its  flight  save  a  long  low  line  of 
piled  railway-sleepers  white  with  the  dust,  a  cluster  of  huts 
made  of  mud,  condemned  rails  and  canvas,  and  the  one 
squat  four-roomed  bungalow  that  belonged  to  the  assistant 
engineer  in  charge  of  a  section  of  the  Gandhari  State  Hne 
then  under  construction. 

The  four  men,  stripped  to  the  thinnest  of  sleeping-suits, 
played  whist  crossly,  with  wranghngs  as  to  leads  and  returns. 
It  was  not  the  best  kind  of  whist,  but  they  had  taken  some 
trouble  to  arrive  at  it.  Mottram,  of  the  India  Survey,  had 
ridden  thirty  and  railed  one  hundred  miles  from  his  lonely 
post  in  the  desert  since  the  previous  night ;  Lowndes,  of  the 
Civil  Service,  on  special  duty  in  the  political  department,  had 
come  as  far  to  escape  for  an  instant  the  miserable  intrigues  of 
an  impoverished  native  state  whose  king  alternately  fawned 
and  blustered  for  more  money  from  the  pitiful  revenues  con- 
tributed by  hard- wrung  peasants  and  ■  despairing  camel- 
breeders  ;  Spurstow,  the  doctor  of  the  line,  had  left  a  cholera- 
stricken  camp  of  coolies  to  look  after  itself  for  forty-eight 
hours  while  he  associated  with  white  men  once  more.  Hum- 
mfl,  the  assistant  engineer,  was  the  host.  He  stood  fast,  and 
received  his  friends  thus  every  Sunday  if  they  could  come  in. 
"When  one  of  them  failed  to  appear,  he  would  send  a  telegram 
to  his  last  address,  in  order  that  he  might  know  whether  the 
defaulter  was  dead  or  alive.  There  be  very  many  places 
in  the  East  where  it  is  not  good  or  kind  to  let  your  acquaint- 
ances drop  out  of  sight  even  for  one  short  week. 

The  players  were  not  conscious  of  any  special  regard  for 
each  other.  They  squabbled  whenever  they  met;  but  they 
ardently  desired  to  meet,  as  men  without  water  desire  to 
drink.  They  were  lonely  folk  who  understood  the  dread 
meaning  of  loneliness.  They  were  all  under  thirty  years  of 
age — which  is  too  soon  for  any  man  to  possess  that  knowledge. 


80  U/or^s  of  Hudyard  \{ip\ii)<^ 

*^Pilsener,"  said  Spurstow,  after  the  second  rubber,  mop- 
ping his  forehead. 

* 'Beer's  out,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  and  there's  hardly  enough 
soda-water  for  to-night,"  said  Hummil. 

"What  filthy  bad  management!"  snarled  Spurstow. 

"Can't  help  it.  I've  written  and  wired;  but  the  trains 
don't  come  through  regularly  yet.  Last  week  the  ice  ran 
out — as  Lowndes  knows." 

"Glad  I  didn't  come.  I  could  ha'  sent  you  some  if  I  had 
known,  though.  Phew !  it's  too  hot  to  go  on  playing  bumble- 
puppy." 

This  was  a  savage  growl  at  Lowndes,  who  only  laughed. 
He  was  a  hardened  offender. 

Mottram  rose  from  the  table  and  looked  out  of  a  chink  in 
the  shutters. 

"What  a  sweet  day!"  said  he. 

The  company  yawned  unanimously  and  betook  them- 
selves to  an  aimless  investigation  of  all  Hummil's  possessions 
— guns,  tattered  novels,  saddlery,  spurs,  and  the  like.  They 
had  fingered  them  a  score  of  times  before,  but  there  was 
really  nothing  else  to  do. 

"Got  anything  fresh?"  said  Lowndes. 

"Last  week's  'Gazette  of  India,'  and  a  cutting  from  a 
home  paper.     My  father  sent  it  out.     It's  rather  amusing. " 

"One  of  those  vestrymen  that  call  'emselves  M.  P.  's  again, 
is  it?"  said  Spurstow,  who  read  his  newspapers  when  he 
could  get  them. 

"Yes.  Listen  to  this.  It's  to  your  address,  Lowndes, 
The  man  was  making  a  speech  to  his  constituents,  and  he 
piled  it  on.  Here's  a  sample:  *And  I  assert  unhesitatingly 
that  the  Civil  Service  in  India  is  the  preserve — the  pet  pre- 
serve— of  the  aristocracy  of  England.  What  does  the  de- 
mocracy— what  do  the  masses — get  from  that  country,  which 
we  have  step  by  step  fraudulently  annexed?  I  answer,  -noth- 
ing whatever.  It  is  farmed,  with  a  single  eye  to  their  own 
interests,  by  the  scions  of  the  aristocracy.  They  take  good 
care  to  maintain  their  lavish  scale  of  incomes,  to  avoid  or 


fT\lT)e  Omjt)  people  81 

stifle  any  inquiries  into  the  nature  and  conduct  of  their  ad- 
ministration, while  they  themselves  force  the  unhappy  peasant 
to  pay  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow  for  all  the  luxuries  in  which 
they  are  lapped.'  "  Hummil  waved  the  cutting  above  his 
head.     "'Ear!  'ear!"  said  his  audience. 

Then  Lowndes,  meditatively:  "I'd  give — I'd  give  three 
months'  pay  to  have  that  gentleman  spend  one  month  with 
me  and  see  how  the  free  and  independent  native  prince  works 
things.  Old  Timbersides" — this  was  his  flippant  title  for  an 
honored  and  decorated  prince — "has  been  wearing  my  life 
out  this  week  past  for  money.  By  Jove !  his  latest  perform- 
ance was  to  send  me  one  of  his  women  as  a  bribe!" 

"Good  for  you.     Did  you  accept  it?"  said  Mottram. 

"No.  I  rather  wish  I  had,  now.  She  was  a  pretty  little 
person,  and  she  yarned  away  to  me  about  the  horrible  desti- 
tution among  the  king's  women-folk.  The  darlings  haven't 
had  any  new  clothes  for  nearly  a  month,  and  the  old  man 
wants  to  buy  a  new  drag  from  Calcutta — solid  silver  railings 
and  silver  lamps,  and  trifles  of  that  kind.  I've  ti'ed  to 
make  him  understand  that  he  has  played  the  deuce  with  the 
revenues  for  the  last  twenty  years,  and  must  go  slow.  He 
can't  see  it. " 

"But  he  has  the  ancestral  treasure- vault  to  draw  on. 
There  must  be  three  millions  at  least  in  jewels  and  coin  under 
his  palace,"  said  HummiL  - 

' '  Catch  a  native  king  disturbing  the  family  treasure !  The 
priests  forbid  it,  except  as  the  last  resort.  Old  Timbersides 
has  added  something  like  a  quarter  of  a  million  to  the  deposit 
in  his  reign." 

"Where  the  mischief  does  it  all  come  from?"  said  Mot- 
tram. 

"The  country.     The  state  of  the  people  is  enough  to  make 

you  sick.     I've  known  the  tax-men  wait  by  a  milch-camel 

till  the  foal  was  born,  and  then  hurry  off  the  mother  for 

^  arrears.     And  what  can  I  do?     I  can't  get  the  court  clerks  to 

give  me  any  accounts ;    I  can't  raise  anything  more  than  a 

I    fat  smile  from  the  commander-in-chief  when  I  find  out  the 


82  U/orKs  of  I^udyard  \{\pllT)<^ 

troops  are  three  months  in  arrears;  and  old  Timbersides 
begins  to  weep  when  I  speak  to  him.  He  has  taken  to  the 
king's  peg  heavily — liqueur  brandy  for  whisky  and  Heidsieck 
for  soda-water." 

*' That's  what  the  Rao  of  Jubela  took  to.  Even  a  native 
can't  last  long  at  that,"  said  Spurstow.     ''He'll  go  out." 

"And  a  good  thing,  too.  Then  I  suppose  we'll  have  a 
council  of  regency,  and  a  tutor  for  the  young  prince,  and 
hand  him  back  his  kingdom  with  ten  years'  accumulations." 

"Whereupon  that  young  prince,  having  been  taught  all 
the  vices  of  the  English,  will  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  the 
money,  and  undo  ten  years'  work  in  eighteen  months.  I've 
seen  that  business  before,"  said  Spurstow.  "I  should  tackle 
the  king  with  a  hght  hand,  if  I  were  you,  Lowndes.  They'll 
hate  you  quite  enough  under  any  circumstances. ' ' 

"That's  all  very  well.  The  man  who  looks  on  can  talk 
about  the  light  hand  but  you  can't  clean  a  pigsty  with  a 
pen  d'pped  in  rosewatDr.  I  know  my  risks;  but  nothing  has 
happened  yet.  My  servant's  an  old  Pathan,  and  he  cooks  for 
me.  They  are  hardly  likely  to  bribe  him,  and  I  don't  accept 
food  from  my  true  friends,  as  they  call  themselves.  Oh,  but 
it's  weary  work !  I'd  sooner  be  with  you,  Spurstow.  There's 
shooting  near  your  camp." 

"Would  you?  I  don't  think  it.  About  fifteen  deaths  a 
day  don't  incite  a  man  to  shoot  anything  but  himself.  And 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  the  poor  devils  look  at  you  as  though 
you  ought  to  save  them.  Lord  knows,  I've  tried  everything. 
My  last  attempt  was  empirical,  but  it  pulled  an  old  man 
through.  He  was  brought  to  me  apparently  past  hope,  and 
I  gave  him  gin  and  Worcester  sauce  with  cayenne.  It  cured 
him;  but  I  don't  recommend  it." 

"How  do  the  cases  run  generally?"  said  Hummil. 

"Very  simply  indeed.  Chlorodyne,  opium  pill,  chloro- 
dyne,  collapse,  niter,  bricks  to  the  feet,  and  then — the  burn- 
ing-ghat. The  last  seems  to  be  the  only  thing  that  stops  the 
trouble.  It's  black  cholera,  you  know.  Poor  devils !  But, 
I  will  say,  little  Bunsee  Lai,  my  apothecary,  works  Hke  a 


fT\\T)e  0\jjT)  people  83 

demon.  I've  reconiniended  him  for  promotion  if  he  comes 
through  it  all  alive." 

'*And  what  are  your  chances,  old  man?"  said  Mottram. 

"Don't  know;  don't  care  much;  but  I've  sent  the  letter 
in.     What  are  you  doing  with  yourself  generally?" 

"Sitting  under  a  table  in  the  tent  and  spitting  on  the 
sextant  to  keep  it  cool, "  said  the  man  of  the  survey.  "Wash- 
ing my  eyes  to  avoid  ophthalmia,  which  I  shall  certainly  get, 
and  trying  to  make  a  sub- surveyor  understand  that  an  error 
of  five  degrees  in  ar  angle  isn't  quite  so  small  as  it  looks. 
I'm  altogether  alone,  y'know,  and  shaU  be  till  the  end  of  the 
hot  weather." 

"Hummil's  the  lucky  man,"  said  Lowndes,  flinging  him- 
seK  into  a  long  chair.  "He  has  an  actual  roof — torn  as  to 
the,  ceiling-cloth,  but  still  a  roof — over  his  head.  He  sees 
one  train  daily.  He  can  get  beer  and  soda-water,  and  ice  it 
when  God  is  good.  He  has  books,  pictures" — they  were  torn 
from  the  "Graphic" — "and  the  society  of  the  excellent  sub- 
contractor Jevins,  besides  the  pleasure  of  receiving  us  weekly. ' ' 

Hummil  smiled  grimly.  "Yes,  I'm  the  lucky  man,  I 
suppose.     Jevins  is  luckier. " 

"How?     Not—" 

"Yes.     Went  out.     Last  Monday." 

"^p  sef^  said  Spurstow,  quickly,  hinting  the  suspicion 
that  was  in  everybody's  mind.  There  was  no  cholera  near 
Hummil's  section.  Even  fever  gives  a  man  at  least  a  week's 
grace,  and  sudden  death  generally  implied  self -slaughter. 

"I  judge  no  man  this  weather,"  said  Hummil.  "He  had 
a  touch  of  the  sun,  I  fancy ;  for  last  week,  after  you  f eUows 
had  left,  he  came  into  the  veranda  and  told  me  that  he  was 
going  home  to  see  his  wife,  in  Market  Street,  Liverpool,  that 
evening.  I  got  the  apothecary  in  to  look  at  him,  and  we 
tried  to  make  him  lie  down.  After  an  hour  or  two  he  rubbed 
his  eyes  and  said  he  believed  he  had  had  a  fit — hoped  he 
hadn't  said  anything  rude.  Jevins  had  a  great  idea  of  bet- 
tering himself  socially.  He  was  very  hke  Chucks  in  his 
language." 


S4  U/orl^s  of  r^adyard  I^iplir>(^ 

"Then  he  went  to  his  own  bungalow  and  began  cleaning 
a  rifle.  He  told  the  servant  that  he  was  going  after  buck  in 
the  morning.  Naturally  he  fumbled  with  the  trigger,  and 
shot  himseK  through  the  head  accidentally.  The  apothecary 
sent  in  a  report  to  my  chief,  and  Jevins  is  buried  somewhere 
out  there.  I'd  have  wired  to  you,  Spurstow,  if  you  could 
have  done  anything." 

"You're  a  queer  chap,"  said  Mottram.  "If  you  killed 
the  man  yourself  you  couldn't  have  been  more  quiet  about 
the  business." 

"Good  Lord!  what  does  it  matter?"  said  Hummil,  calmly. 
"I've  got  to  do  a  lot  of  his  overseeing  work  in  addition  to  my 
own.  I'm  the  only  person  that  suffers.  Jevins  is  out  of  it — 
by  pure  accident,  of  course,  but  out  of  it.  The  apothecary 
was  going  to  write  a  long  screed  on  suicide.  Trust  a  babu  to 
drivel  when  he  gets  the  chance." 

"Why  didn't  you  let  it  go  in  as  suicide?'*  said  Lowndes. 

"ITo  direct  proof.  A  man  hasn't  many  privileges  in  this 
country,  but  he  might  at  least  be  allowed  to  mishandle  his 
ov^^n  rifle.  Besides,  some  day  I  may  need  a  man  to  smother 
up  an  accident  to  myself.     Live  and  let  live.     Die  and  let  die. " 

"You  take  a  pill,"  said  Spurstow,  who  had  been  watching 
Hummil's  white  face  narrowly.  "Take  a  pill,  and  don't  be 
an  ass.  That  sort  of  talk  is  skittles.  Anyhow,  suicide  is 
shirking  your  work.  If  I  was  a  Job  ten  times  over,  I  should 
be  so  interested  in  what  was  gomg  to  happen  next  that  I'd 
stay  on  and  watch." 

"Ah!  I've  lost  that  curiosity,"  said  Hummil. 

"Liver  out  of  order?"  said  Lowndes,  feehngly. 

"N"o.     Can't  sleep.     That's  worse." 

"By  Jove,  it  is!"  said  Mottram.  "I'm  that  way  every 
now  and  then,  and  the  fit  has  to  wear  itself  out.  What 
do  you  take  for  it?" 

"ITothing.  What's  the  use?  I  haven't  had  ten  minutes' 
sleep  since  Friday  morning. ' ' 

"Poor  chap!     Spurstow,  you  ought  to  attend  to  this,'^ 


IT\iT)e  0\jjT)  people  85 

said  Mottram.     "Now  you  mention  it,  your  eyes  are  rather 
gummy  and  swollen. " 

Spurstow,  still  watching  Hummil,  laughed  lightly.  *'I'U 
patch  him  up  later  on.  Is  it  too  hot,  do  you  think,  to  go  for 
a  ride?" 

"Where  to?"  said  Lowndes,  wearily.  *' We  shall  have  to 
go  away  at  eight,  and  there'll  be  riding  enough  for  us  then. 
I  hate  a  horse,  when  I  have  to  use  him  as  a  necessity.  Oh, 
heavens !  what  is  there  to  do?' ' 

*' Begin  whist  again,  at  chick  points"  (a  *' chick"  is  sup- 
posed to  be  eight  shillings),  '*and  a  gold  mohur  on  the  rub," 
said  Spurstow,  promptly. 

"Poker.  A  month's  pay  all  round  for  the  pool — no  limit 
— and  fifty-rupee  raises.  Somebody  would  be  broken  before 
we  got  up,"  said  Lowndes. 

"Can't  say  that  it  would  give  me  any  pleasure  to  break 
any  man  in  this  company,"  said  Mottram,  "There  isn't 
enough  excitement  in  it,  and  it's  foolish."  He  crossed  over 
to  the  worn  and  battered  little  camp-piano — wreckage  of  a 
married  household  that  had  once  held  the  bungalow — and 
opened  the  case. 

"It's  used  up  long  ago,"  said  Hummil.  "The  servants 
have  picked  it  to  pieces." 

The  piano  was  indeed  hopelessly  out  of  order,  but  Mot- 
tram  managed  to  bring  the  rebellious  notes  into  a  sort  of 
agreement,  and  there  rose  from  the  ragged  key-board  some- 
thing that  might  once  have  been  the  ghost  of  a  popular 
music-hall  song.  The  men  in  the  long  chairs  turned  with 
evident  interest  as  Mottram  banged  the  more  lustily. 

"That's  good!"  said  Lowndes.  "By  Jove!  the  last  time 
I  heard  that  song  was  in  '79,  or  thereabout,  just  before  I 
came  out." 

**Ah!"  said  Spurstow,  with  pride,  "I  was  home  in  '80." 
And  he  mentioned  a  song  of  the  streets  popular  at  that 
dat«. 

Mottram  executed  it  indifferently  well.  Lowndes  criti- 
cised, and  volunteered  emendations.     Mottram  dashed  into 


S<s  U/orl^s  of  I^udyar<i  l^ipIiQ($ 

another  ditty,  not  of  the  music-hall  character,  and  made  as 
if  to  rise. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Hummil.  "I  didn't  know  that  you 
had  any  music  in  your  composition.  Go  on  playing  until 
you  can't  think  of  anything  more.  I'll  have  that  piano 
tuned  up  before  you  come  again.     Play  something  festive." 

Very  simple  indeed  were  the  tunes  to  which  Mottram's 
art  and  the  limitations  of  the  piano  could  give  effect,  but  the 
men  hstened  with  pleasure,  and  in  the  pauses  talked  all  to- 
gether of  what  they  had  seen  or  heard  when  they  were  last 
at  home.  A  dense  dust-storm  sprung  up  outside  and  swept 
roaring  over  the  house,  enveloping  it  in  the  choking  dark- 
ness of  midnight,  but  Mottram  continued  unheeding,  and  the 
crazy  tinkle  reached  the  ears  of  the  listeners  above  the  flap- 
ping of  the  tattered  ceiling-cloth. 

In  the  silence  after  the  storm  he  glided  from  the  more 
directly  personal  songs  of  Scotland,  half  humming  them  as 
he  played,  into  the  ** Evening  Hymn." 

** Sunday,"  said  he,  nodding  his  head. 

**Go  on.     Don't  apologize  for  it,"  said  Spurstow. 

Hummil  laughed  long  and  riotously.  **Play  it,  by  all 
means.  You're  full  of  surprises  to-day.  I  didn't  know  you 
had  such  a  gift  of  finished  sarcasm.    How  does  that  thing  go?' ' 

Mottram  took  up  the  tune. 

'*Too  slow  by  half.  You  miss  the  note  of  gratitude," 
said  Hummil.  '*It  ought  to  go  to  the  'Grasshopper's  Polka' 
— ^this  way."     And  he  chanted,  prestissimo: 

"  'Glory  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light. ' 

That  shows  we  really  feel  our  blessings.    How  does  it  go  on?— 


''  'If  in  the  night  I  sleepless  lie. 

My  soul  with  sacred  thoughts  supply; 
May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest'— 

Quicker,  Mottram! — 

*'  'Or  powers  of  darkness  me  molest!'  '* 


i 


/T\ii7G  OwT)  people  87 

**Bah!  what  an  old  hypocrite  you  are." 

*' Don't  be  an  ass,"  said  Lowndes.  "You  are  at  full  lib- 
erty to  make  fun  of  anything  else  you  like,  but  leave  that 
hymn  alone.  It's  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  most 
sacred  recollections— ' ' 

'*  Summer  evenings  in  the  country — stained- glass  window 
— hght  going  out,  and  you  and  she  jamming  your  heads  to- 
gether over  one  hymn-book, ' '  said  Mottram. 

''Yes,  and  a  fat  old  cockchafer  hitting  you  in  the  eye 
when  you  walked  home.  Smell  of  hay,  and  a  moon  as  big 
as  a  band-box  sitting  on  the  top  of  a  haycock;  bats — roses — 
milk  and  midges,"  said  Lowndes. 

"Also  mothers.  I  can  just  recollect  my  mother  singing 
me  to  sleep  with  that  when  I  was  a  little  chap, ' '  said  Spur- 
stow. 

The  darkness  had  fallen  on  the  room.  They  could  hear 
Hummil  squirming  in  his  chair. 

"Consequently,"  said  he,  testily,  "you  sing  it  when  you 
are  seven  fathoms  deep  in  hell !  It's  an  insult  to  the  intel- 
hgence  of  the  Deity  to  pretend  we're  anything  but  tortured 
rebels." 

"Take  two  pills,"  said  Spurstow;  "that's  tortured  liver." 

"The  usually  placid  Hummil  is  in  a  vile  bad  temper.  I'm 
sorry  for  the  cooHes  to-morrow,"  said  Lowndes,  as  the  ser- 
vants brought  in  the  lights  and  prepared  the  table  for  dinner. 

As  they  were  settling  into  their  places  about  the  miser- 
able goat-chops,  the  curried  eggs,  and  the  smoked  tapioca 
pudding,  Spurstow  took  occasion  to  whisper  to  Mottram  i 
"Well  done,  David!" 

"Look  after  Saul,  then,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  are  you  two  whispering  about?"  said  Hummil, 
suspiciously. 

"Only  saying  that  you  are  a  d d  poor  host.     This 

fowl  can't  be  cut,"  returned  Spurstow,  with  a  sweet  smile, 
"Call  this  a  dinner?" 

"I  can't  help  it.     You  don't  expect  a  banquet,  do  you?" 

Throughout  that  meal  Hummil  contrived  laboriously  to 


88        '  U/orKs  of  r^adyard  \{lpliT)<^ 

insult  directly  and  pointedly  all  his  guests  in  succession,  and 
at  each  insult  Spurstow  kicked  the  aggrieved  person  under 
the  table ;  but  he  dared  not  exchange  a  glance  of  intelligence 
with  either  of  them.  Hummil's  face  was  white  and  pinched, 
while  his  eyes  were  unnaturally  large.  No  man  dreamed  for 
a  moment  of  resenting  his  savage  personalities,  but  as  soon 
as  the  meal  was  over  they  made  haste  to  get  away. 

"Don't  go.  You're  just  getting  amusing,  you  fellows. 
I  hope  I  haven't  said  anything  that  annoyed  you.  You're 
such  touchy  devils."  Then,  changing  the  note  into  one  of 
almost  abject  entreaty:  "I  say,  you  surely  aren't  going?" 

"Where  I  dines,  I  sleeps,  in  the  language  of  the  blessed 
Jorrocks,"  said  Spurstow.  "I  want  to  have  a  look  at  your 
coolies  to-morrow,  if  you  don't  mind.  You  can  give  me  a 
place  to  lie  down  in,  I  suppose?" 

The  others  pleaded  the  urgency  of  their  several  employs 
next  day,  and,  saddling  up,  departed  together,  Hummil  beg- 
ging them  to  come  next  Sunday. 

As  they  jogged  off  together,  Lowndes  unbosomed  him- 
self to  Mottram :  "  .  .  .  And  I  never  felt  so  like  kicking  a 
man  at  his  own  table  in  my  life.  Said  I  cheated  at  whist, 
and  reminded  me  I  was  in  debt!  Told  you  you  were  as 
good  as  a  liar  to  your  face!  You  aren't  half  indignant 
enough  over  it." 

"Not  I,"  said  Mottram.  "Poor  devil!  Did  you  ever 
know  old  Hummy  behave  like  that  before?  Did  you  ever 
know  him  go  within  a  hundred  miles  of  it?" 

"That's  no  excuse.  Spurstow  was  hacking  my  shin  all 
the  time,  so  I  kept  a  hand  on  myself.  Else  I  should 
have — " 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  You'd  have  done  as  Hummy  did 
about  Jevins :  judge  no  man  this  weather.  By  Jove !  the 
buckle  of  my  bridle  is  hot  in  my  hand !  Trot  out  a  bit,  and 
mind  the  rat-holes. " 

Ten  minutes'  trotting  jerked  out  of  Lowndes  one  very 
sage  remark  when  he  pulled  up,  sweating  from  every  pore : 

"Good  thing  Spurstow's  with  him  to-night." 


/r\ii}e  Ou;r>  people  89 

"Ye-es.  Good  man,  Spurstow.  Our  roads  turn  here. 
See  you  again  next  Sunday,  if  the  sun  doesn't  bowl  me 
over." 

**S'pose  so,  unless  old  Timbersides'  finance  minister  man- 
ages to  dress  some  of  my  food.  Good-night,  and — God  bless 
you!" 

"What's  wrong  now?" 

"Oh,  nothing."  Lowndes  gathered  up  his  whip,  and,  as 
he  flicked  Mottram's  mare  on  the  flank,  added:  "You're 
a  good  little  chap— that's  all."  And  the  mare  bolted  half 
a  mile  across  the  sand  on  the  word. 

In  the  assistant  engineer's  bungalow  Spurstow  and  Hxmi" 
mil  smoked  the  pipe  of  silence  together,  each  narrowly  watch« 
ing  the  other.  The  capacity  of  a  bachelor's  establishment  is 
as  elastic  as  its  arrangements  are  simple.  A  servant  cleared 
away  the  dining-room  table,  brought  in  a  couple  of  rude  na- 
tive bedsteads  made  of  tape  strung  on  a  hght  wood  frame, 
flung  a  square  of  cool  Calcutta  matting  over  each,  set  them 
side  by  side,  pinned  two  towels  to  the  punkah  so  that  their 
fringes  should  just  sweep  clear  of  each  sleeper's  nose  and 
mouth,  and  announced  that  the  couches  were  ready. 

The  men  flung  themselves  down,  adjuring  the  punkah- 
coolies  by  all  the  powers  of  Eblis  to  pull.  Every  door  and 
window  was  shut,  for  the  outside  air  was  that  of  an  oven. 
The  atmosphere  within  was  only  104°,  as  the  thermometer 
attested,  and  heavy  with  the  foul  smell  of  badly  trimmed 
kerosene  lamps;  and  this  stench,  combined  with  that  of  na- 
tive tobacco,  baked  brick,  and  dried  earth,  sends  the  heart 
of  many  a  strong  man  down  to  his  boots,  for  it  is  the  smell 
of  the  great  Indian  Empire  when  she  turns  herself  for  six 
months  into  a  house  of  torment,  Spurstow  packed  his  pil- 
lows craftily,  so  that  he  reclined  rather  than  lay,  his  head  at 
a  safe  elevation  above  his  feet.  It  is  not  good  to  sleep  on  a 
low  pillow  in  the  hot  weather  if  you  happen  to  be  of  thick- 
necked  build,  for  you  may  pass  with  lively  snores  and  gur- 
glings from  natural  sleep  into  the  deep  slumber  of  heat- 
apoplexy. 


90  U/or^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplii)<$ 

**Pack  your  pillows,"  said  the  doctor,  sharply,  as  he  saw 
Huraniil  preparing  to  lie  down  at  full  length. 

The  night-light  was  trimmed ;  the  shadow  of  the  punkah 
wavered  across  the  room,  and  the  flick  of  the  punkah-towel 
and  the  soft  whine  of  the  rope  through  the  wall-hole  followed 
it.  Then  the  punkah  flagged,  almost  ceased.  The  sweat 
poured  from  Spurstow's  brow.  Should  he  go  out  and  ha- 
rangue the  coolie?  It  started  forward  again  with  a  savage 
jerk,  and  a  pin  came  out  of  the  towels.  When  this  was  re- 
placed, a  tom-tom  in  the  coolie  lines  began  to  beat  with  the 
steady  throb  of  a  swollen  artery  inside  some  brain-fevered 
skull.  Spurstow  turned  on  his  side  and  swore  gently.  There 
was  no  movement  on  Hummil's  part.  The  man  had  com- 
posed himself  as  rigidly  as  a  corpse,  his  hands  clinched  at 
his  sides.  The  respiration  was  too  hurried  for  any  suspicion 
of  sleep.  Spurstow  looked  at  the  set  face.  The  jaws  were 
clinched,  and  there  was  a  pucker  round  the  quivering  eyelids. 

*'He's  holding  himself  as  tightly  as  ever  he  can,"  thought 
Spurstow.  "What  a  sham  it  is!  and  what  in  the  world  is 
the  matter  with  him? — Hummil!" 

''Yes." 

"Can't  you  get  to  sleep?" 

"ITo." 

"Head  hot?     Throat  feeling  bulgy?  or  how?" 

"ISTeither,  thanks.     I  don't  sleep  much,  you  know. 

"Feel  pretty  bad?" 

"Pretty  bad,  thanks.  There  is  a  tom-tom  outside,  isn't 
there?  I  thought  it  was  my  head  at  first.  Oh,  Spurstow, 
for  pity's  sake,  give  me  something  that  will  put  me  asleep — 
sound  sleep — if  it's  only  for  six  hours!"  He  sprung  up.  "I 
haven't  been  able  to  sleep  naturally  for  days,  and  I  can't 
stand  it! — I  can't  stand  it!" 

"Poor  old  chap!" 

"That's  no  use.  Give  me  something  to  make  me  sleep. 
I  tell  you  I'm  nearly  mad.  I  don't  know  what  I  say  half 
miy  time.  For  three  weeks  I've  had  to  think  and  spell  out 
every  word  that  has  come  through  my  lips  before  I  dared 


fT\iT)Q  0\jjT)  people  91 

say  it.  I  had  to  get  my  sentences  out  down  to  the  last  word, 
for  fear  of  talking  drivel  if  I  didn't.  Isn't  that  enough  to 
drive  a  man  mad?  I  can't  see  things  correctly  now,  and 
I've  lost  my  sense  of  touch.  Make  me  sleep.  Oh,  Spur- 
stow,  for  the  love  of  God,  make  me  sleep  sound.  It  isn't 
enough  merely  to  let  me  dream.     Let  me  sleep!" 

"All  right,  old  man,  all  right.  Go  slow.  You  aren't 
half  as  bad  as  you  think. ' '  The  flood-gates  of  reserve  once 
broken,  Hummil  was  clinging  to  him  like  a  frightened  child. 

^'You're  pinching  my  arm  to  pieces." 

"I'll  break  your  neck  if  you  don't  do  something  for  me. 
No,  I  didn't  mean  that.  Don't  be  angry,  old  feUow."  He 
wiped  the  sweat  off  himself  as  he  fought  to  regain  com- 
posure. "As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  a  bit  restless  and  off  my 
oats,  and  perhaps  you  could  recommend  some  sort  of  sleep- 
ing-mixture— bromide  of  potassium." 

"Bromide  of  skittles!  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  be- 
fore? Let  go  of  my  arm,  and  I'll  see  if  there's  anything  in 
my  cigarette-case  to  suit  your  complaint. ' '  He  hunted  among 
his  day-clothes,  turned  up  the  lamp,  opened  a  little  silver 
cigarette-case,  and  advanced  on  the  expectant  Hummil  with 
the  daintiest  of  fairy  squirts. 

"The  last  appeal  of  civilization,"  said  he,  "and  a  thing 
I  hate  to  use.  Hold  out  your  arm.  Well,  your  sleeplessness 
hasn't  ruined  your  muscle;  and  what  a  thick  hide  it  is! 
Might  as  well  inject  a  buffalo  subcutaneously.  Now  in  a 
few  minutes  the  morphia  will  begin  working.  Lie  down 
and  wait. ' ' 

A  smile  of  unalloyed  and  idiotic  delight  began  to  creep 
over  Hummil 's  face.  "I  think,"  he  whispered — "I  think 
I'm  going  off  now.  Gad!  it's  positively  heavenly !  Spur- 
stow,  you  must  give  me  that  case  to  keep;  you — "  The 
voice  ceased  as  the  head  fell  back. 

"Not  for  a  good  deal,"  said  Spurstow  to  the  unconscious 
form.  "And  now,  my  friend,  sleeplessness  of  your  kind  be- 
ing very  apt  to  relax  the  moral  fiber  in  little  matters  of  hf e 
and  death,  I'll  just  take  the  liberty  of  spiking  your  guns." 


B2  U/orl^s  of  r^udyard  \{ipliT)(^ 

He  paddled  into  Hummirs  saddle-room  in  his  bare  feet, 
and  uncased  a  twelve-bore,  an  express,  and  a  revolver.  Of 
the  first  he  unscrewed  the  nipples  and  hid  them  in  the  bottom 
of  a  saddlery-case;  of  the  second  he  abstracted  the  lever, 
placing  it  behind  a  big  wardrobe.  The  third  he  merely 
opened,  and  knocked  the  doll-head  bolt  of  the  grip  up  with 
the  heel  of  a  riding-boot. 

"That's  settled,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  the  sweat  off  his 
hands.  "These  little  precautions  will  at  least  give  you  time 
to  turn.  You  have  too  much  sympathy  with  gun-room 
accidents." 

And  as  he  rose  from  his  knees,  the  thick  mufl9.ed  voice  of 
Hummil  cried  in  the  doorway:  "You  fool!" 

Such  tones  they  use  who  speak  in  the  lucid  intervals  of 
delirium  to  their  friends  a  little  before  they  die. 

Spurstow  jumped  with  sheer  fright.  Hummil  stood  in 
the  doorway,  rocking  with  helpless  laughter. 

"That  was  awf'ly  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  very 
slowly,  feeling  for  his  words.  "I  don't  intend  to  go  out  by 
my  own  hand  at  present.  I  say,  Spurstow,  that  stuff  won't 
work.  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  And  panic 
terror  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"Lie  down  and  give  it  a  chance.     Lie  down  at  once." 

"I  daren't.  It  will  only  take  me  half-way  again,  and  I 
shan't  be  able  to  get  away  this  time.  Do  you  know  it  was 
ail  I  could  do  to  come  out  just  now?  Generally  I  am  as  quick 
as  lightning;  but  you  have  clogged  my  feet.  I  was  nearly 
caught." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand.     Go  and  lie  down." 

"!N"o,  it  isn't  delirium;  but  it  was  an  awfully  mean  trick 
to  play  on  me.     Do  you  know  I  might  have  died?" 

As  a  sponge  rubs  a  slate  clean,  so  some  power  unknown 
to  Spurstow  had  wiped  out  of  Hummil 's  face  all  that  stamped 
it  for  the  face  of  a  man,  and  he  stood  at  the  doorway  in  the 
expression  of  his  lost  innocence.  He  had  slept  back  into 
terrified  childhood. 

"Is  he  going  to   die   on  the  spot?"  thought  Spurstow. 


fT[iv)Q  Ou/r>  people  93 

Then,  aloud:  *^A11  right,  my  son.     Come  back  to  bed,  and 

tell  me  all  about  it.     You  couldn't  sleep;  but  what  was  all 

the  rest  of  the  nonsense?" 

jl      "A  place — a  place  down  there,"  said  Hummil,  with  simple 

sincerity.     The  drug  was  acting  on  him  by  waves,  and  he 

was  flung  from  the  fear  of  a  strong  man  to  the  fright  of  a 

.child  as  his  nerves  gathered  sense  or  were  dulled. 

!      ^'Good  God!  I've  been  afraid  of  it  for  months  past,  Spur- 

istow.     It  has  made  every  night  hell  to  me;  and  yet  I'm  not 

conscious  of  having  done  anything  wrong. " 

[      "Be  still,   and  I'll  give  you  another  dose.     We'll  stop 

your  nightmares,  you  unutterable  idiot!" 

I  * '  Yes,  but  you  must  give  me  so  much  that  I  can't  get 
iaway.  You  must  make  me  quite  sleepy — not  just  a  httle 
jsleepy.     It's  so  hard  to  run  then." 

"I  know  it;  I  know  it.  I've  felt  it  myself .  The  symp- 
[toms  are  exactly  as  you  describe." 

"Oh,  don't  laugh  at  me,  confound  you!  Before  this 
awful  sleeplessness  came  to  me  I've  tried  to  rest  on  my  elbow 
and  put  a  spur  in  the  bed  to  sting  me  when  I  fell  back. 
Look!" 

II  "  By  Jove !  the  man  has  been  roweled  like  a  horse !  Ridden 
'by  the  nightmare  with  a  vengeance!  And  we  all  thought 
him  sensible  enough.  Heaven  send  us  understanding!  You 
like  to  talk,  don't  you,  old  man?" 

I  "Yes,  sometimes.  Not  when  I'm  frightened.  Then  I 
want  to  run.     Don't  you?" 

I'  "Always.  Before  I  give  you  your  second  dose,  try  to  tell 
me  exactly  what  your  trouble  is. " 

Hummil  spoke  in  broken  whispers  for  nearly  ten  minutes, 
while  Spurstow  looked  into  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  and  passed 
his  hand  before  them  once  or  twice. 

At  the  end  of  the  narrative  the  silver  cigarette-case  was 
produced,  and  the  last  words  that  Hummil  said  as  he  fell 
back  for  the  second  time  were:  "Put  me  quite  to  sleep;  for 
if  I'm  caught,  I  die — I  die!" 

"Yes,  yes;  we  all  do  that  sooner  or  later,  thank  Heaven! 


94  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii>0 

who  has  set  a  term  to  our  miseries,"  said  Spurstow,  settling 
the  cushions  under  the  head.  *'It  occurs  to  me  that  unless  I 
drink  something  I  shall  go  out  before  my  time.  IVe  stopped 
sweating^  and  I  wear  a  seventeen-inch  collar."  And  he 
brewed  himself  scalding  hot  tea,  which  is  an  excellent  remedy 
against  heat-apoplexy  if  you  take  three  or  four  cups  of  it  in 
time.     Then  he  watched  the  sleeper. 

"A  blind  face  that  cries  and  can't  wipe  its  eyes.  H'm! 
Decidedly,  Hummil  ought  to  go  on  leave  as  soon  as  possible; 
and,  sane  or  otherwise,  he  undoubtedly  did  rowel  himself 
most  cruelly.     Well,  Heaven  send  us  understanding!" 

At  midday  Hummil  rose,  with  an  evil  taste  in  his  mouth, 
but  an  unclouded  eye  and  a  joyful  heart. 

**I  was  pretty  bad  last  night,  wasn't  I?"  said  he. 

* '  I  have  seen  healthier  men.  You  must  have  had  a  touch 
of  the  sun.  Look  here:  if  I  write  you  a  swingeing  medical 
certificate,  will  you  apply  for  leave  on  the  spot?" 

*'No." 

*' Why  not?     You  want  it." 

"Yes,  but  I  can  hold  on  till  the  weather's  a  little  cooler." 

*'"Why  should  you,  if  you  can  get  relieved  on  the  spot?" 

'*Burkett  is  the  only  man  who  could  be  sent;  and  he's  a 
born  fool." 

**0h,  never  mind  about  the  line.  You  aren't  so  important 
as  all  that.     Wire  for  leave,  if  necessary." 

Hummil  looked  very  uncomfortable. 

"I  can  hold  on  till  the  rains,"  he  said,  evasively. 

'*You  can't.     Wire  to  headquarters  for  Burkett." 

*'I  won't.  If  you  want  to  know  why,  particularly, 
Burkett  is  married,  and  his  wife's  just  had  a  kid,  and  she's 
up  at  Simla,  in  the  cool,  and  Burkett  has  a  very  nice  billet 
that  takes  him  into  Simla  from  Saturday  to  Monday.  That 
little  woman  isn't  at  all  well.  If  Burkett  was  transferred 
she'd  try  to  follow  him.  If  she  left  the  baby  behind  she'd 
fret  herself  to  death.  If  she  came — and  Burkett 's  one  of 
those  selfish  little  beasts  who  are  always  talking  about  a 
wife's  place  being  with  her  husband — she'd  die.     It's  murder 


fT[ii)Q  OwT)  people  95 

to  bring  a  woman  here  just  now.  Burkett  has  got  the 
physique  of  a  rat.  If  he  came  here  he'd  go  out;  and  I  know 
she  hasn't  any  mone}^^,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  she'd  go  out  too. 
I'm  salted  in  a  sort  of  way,  and  I'm  not  married.  Wait  till 
the  rains,  and  then  Burkett  can  get  thin  down  here.  It'll  do 
him  heaps  of  good. ' ' 

**Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  intend  to  face — what  you 
have  faced,  for  the  next  fifty-six  nights?" 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  so  bad,  now  you've  shown  me  a  way 
out  of  it.  I  can  always  wire  to  you.  Besides,  now  I've 
once  got  into  the  way  of  sleeping,  it'll  be  all  right.  Anyhow, 
I  shan't  put  in  for  leave.  That's  the  long  and  the  short 
of  it." 

"My  great  Scott!  I  thought  all  that  sort  of  thing  was 
dead  and  done  with." 

"Bosh!  You'd  do  the  same  yourself.  I  feel  a  new  man, 
thanks  to  that  cigarette-case.  You're  going  over  to  camp 
now,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes;  but  I'll  try  to  look  you  up  every  other  day,  if 
I  can." 

"I'm  not  bad  enough  for  that.  I  don't  want  you  to 
bother.     Give  the  coolies  gin  and  ketchup." 

"Then  you  feel  all  right?" 

"Fit  to  fight  for  my  life,  but  not  to  stand  out  in  the  sun 
talking  to  you.     Go  along,  old  man,  and  bless  you!" 

Hummil  turned  on  his  heel  to  face  the  echoing  desolation 
of  his  bungalow,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw  standing  in  the 
veranda  was  the  figure  of  himself.  He  had  met  a  similar 
apparition  once  before,  when  he  was  suffering  from  overwork 
and  the  strain  of  the  hot  weather. 

"This  is  bad — already,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "If 
the  thing  slides  away  from  me  all  in  one  piece,  like  a  ghost, 
I  shall  know  it  is  only  my  eyes  and  stomach  that  are  out  of 
order.     If  it  walks,  I  shall  know  that  my  head  is  going." 

He  walked  to  the  figure,  which  naturally  kept  at  an  un- 
varying distance  from  him,  as  is  the  use  of  all  specters  that 
are  born  of  overwork.     It  slid  through  the  house  and  dissolved 


96  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^J 

into  swinnning  specks  within  the  eyeball  as  soon  as  it  reached 
the  burning  light  of  the  garden.  Hummil  went  about  his 
business  till  even.  When  he  came  into  dinner  he  found  him- 
self sitting  at  the  table.  The  thing  rose  and  walked  out  hastily. 

!N"o  living  man  knows  what  that  week  held  for  Hummil. 
An  increase  of  the  epidemic  kept  Spurstow  in  camp  among  the 
coolies,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  telegraph  to  Mottram, 
bidding  him  go  to  the  bungalow  and  sleep  there.  But  Mot- 
tram  was  forty  miles  away  from  the  nearest  telegraph,  and 
knew  nothing  of  anything  save  the  needs  of  the  survey  till  he 
met  early  on  Sunday  morning  Lowndes  and  Spurstow  heading 
toward  Hummil's  for  the  weekly  gathering. 

*'Hope  the  poor  chap's  in  a  better  temper,"  said  the 
former,  swinging  himself  off  his  horse  at  the  door.  "I  sup- 
pose he  isn't  up  yet." 

**I'll  just  have  a  look  at  him,"  said  the  doctor.  "If  he's 
asleep  there's  no  need  to  wake  him." 

And  an  instant  later,  by  the  tone  of  Spurstow's  voice  call- 
ing upon  them  to  enter,  the  men  knew  what  had  happened. 

The  punkah  was  still  being  pulled  over  the  bed,  but  Hima- 
mil  had  departed  this  life  at  least  three  hours  before. 

The  body  lay  on  its  back,  hands  clinched  by  the  side,  as 
Spurstow  had  seen  it  lying  seven  nights  previously.  In  the 
staring  eyes  was  written  terror  beyond  the  expression  of 
any  pen. 

Mottram,  who  had  entered  behind  Lowndes,  bent  over 
the  dead  and  touched  the  forehead  lightly  with  his  lips.  "Oh, 
you  lucky,  lucky  devil!"  he  whispered. 

But  Lowndes  had  seen  the  eyes,  and  had  withdrawn 
shuddering  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Poor  chap!  poor  chap!  And  the  last  time  I  met  him 
I  was  angry,  Spurstow,  we  should  have  watched  him. 
Has  he—" 

Deftly  Spurstow  continued  his  investigations,  ending  by 
a  search  round  the  room. 

"No,  he  hasn't,"  he  snapped.  "There's  no  trace  of 
anything.     Call  in  the  servants." 


/I\ii)e  0\JJT)  people  97 

They  came,  eight  or  ten  of  them,  whispering  and  peering 
over  each  other's  shoulders. 

"When  did  your  sahib  go  to  bed?"  said  Spurstow. 

**At  eleven  or  ten,  we  think,"  said  Hummil's  personal 
servant. 

*'He  was  well  then?     But  how  should  you  know?" 

*'He  was  not  ill,  as  far  as  our  comprehension  extended. 
But  he  had  slept  very  little  for  three  nights.  This  I  know, 
because  I  saw  him  walking  much,  and  especially  in  the  heart 
of  the  night." 

As  Spurstow  was  arranging  the  sheet,  a  big,  straight- 
necked  hunting-spur  tumbled  on  the  ground.  The  doctor 
groaned.     The  personal  servant  peeped  at  the  body. 

*'What  do  you  think,  Chuma?"  said  Spurstow,  catching 
the  look  in  the  dark  face. 

*' Heaven-born,  in  my  poor  opinion,  this  that  was  my 
master  has  descended  into  the  Dark  Places,  and  there  has  been 
caught,  because  he  was  not  able  to  escape  with  sufficient 
speed.  We  have  the  spur  for  evidence  that  he  fought  with 
Fear.  Thus  have  I  se^n  men  of  my  race  do  with  thorns 
when  a  spell  was  laid  upon  them  to  overtake  them  in  their 
sleeping  hours  and  they  dared  not  sleep." 

'*  Chuma,  you're  a  mud-head.  Go  out  and  prepare  seals 
to  be  set  on  the  sahib's  property." 

* '  God  has  made  the  heaven-born.  God  has  made  me.  Who 
are  we,  to  inquire  into  the  dispensations  of  God?  I  will  bid  the 
other  servants  hold  aloof  while  you  are  reckoning  the  tale  of 
the  sahib's  property.     They  are  all  thieves,  and  would  steal." 

*'As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  he  died  from — oh,  anything: 
stopping  of  the  heart's  action,  heat-apoplexy,  or  some  other 
visitation,"  said  Spurstow  to  his  companions.  "We  must 
jnake  an  inventory  of  his  effects,  and  so  on." 

"He  was  scared  to  death,"  insisted  Lowndes.  "Look  at 
those  eyes !  For  pity's  sake,  don't  let  him  be  buried  with 
them  open!" 

"Whatever  it  was,  he's  out  of  all  the  trouble  now,"  said 
Mottram,  softly. 
Vol.  3.  5 


98  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)(5 

Spurstow  was  peering  into  the  open  eyes. 

' '  Come  here, ' '  said  he.     "  Can  you  see  anything  there?' ' 

*'I  can't  face  it!"  whimpered  Lowndes.  "Cover  up  the 
face !  Is  there  any  fear  on  earth  that  can  turn  a  man  into 
that  hkeness?     It's  ghastly.     Oh,  Spurstow,  cover  him  up!" 

"E'o  fear — on  earth,"  said  Spurstow.  Mottram  leaned 
over  his  shoulder  and  looked  intently. 

*'I  see  nothing  except  some  gray  blurs  in  the  pupil.  There 
can  be  nothing  there,  you  know." 

''Even  so.  Well,  let's  think.  It'll  take  half  a  day  to 
knock  up  any  sort  of  coffin ;  and  he  must  have  died  at  mid- 
night. Lowndes,  old  man,  go  out  and  tell  the  coolies  to  break 
ground  next  to  Jevins'  grave.  Mottram,  go  round  the  house 
with  Chuma  and  see  that  the  seals  are  put  on  things.  Send 
a  couple  of  men  to  me  here,  and  I'll  arrange." 

The  strong-armed  servants  when  they  returned  to  their 
own  kind  told  a  strange  story  of  the  doctor  sahib  vainly  trying 
to  call  their  master  back  to  life  by  magic  arts — to  wit,  the 
holding  of  a  little  green  box  opposite  each  of  the  dead  man's 
eyes,  of  a  frequent  clicking  of  the  same,  and  of  a  bewildered 
muttering  on  the  part  of  the  doctor  sahib,  who  subsequently 
took  the  little  green  box  away  with  him. 

The  resonant  hammering  of  a  coffin-hd  is  no  pleasant  thing 
to  hear,  but  those  who  have  experience  maintain  that  much 
more  terrible  is  the  soft  swish  of  the  bed-linen,  the  reeving 
and  unreeving  of  the  bed-tapes,  when  he  who  has  fallen  by 
the  roadside  is  appareled  for  burial,  sinking  gradually  as  the 
tapes  are  tied  over,  till  the  swaddled  shape  touches  the  floor 
and  there  is  no  protest  against  the  indignity  of  hasty  disposal. 

At  the  last  moment  Lowndes  was  seized  with  scruples  of 
conscience.  "Ought  you  to  read  the  service — from  begin- 
ning to  end?"  said  he. 

"I  intend  to.  You're  my  senior  as  a  civilian.  You  can 
take  it,  if  you  like." 

"I  didn't  mean  that  for  a  moment.  I  only  thought  if  we 
could  get  a  chaplain  from  somewhere — I'm  willing  to  ride  any- 
where—and give  poor  Hummil  a  better  chance.     That's  aU." 


P\lT)e  OwT)  people  99 

*'Bosh!"  said  Spurstow,  as  he  framed  his  hps  to  the  tre- 
mendous words  that  stand  at  the  head  of  the  burial  service. 

After  breakfast  they  smoked  a  pipe  in  silence  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead.     Then  said  Spurstow,  absently: 

*'  'Tisn't  in  medical  science." 

*'What?" 

*' Things  in  a  dead  man's  eyes." 

**For  goodness'  sake,  leave  that  horror  alone!"  said 
Lowndes.  "I've  seen  a  native  die  of  fright  when  a  tiger 
chivied  him.     I  know  what  killed  Hummil. ' ' 

*'The  deuce  you  do!  I'm  going  to  try  to  see."  And  the 
doctor  retreated  into  the  bath-room  with  a  Kodak  camera, 
splashing  and  grunting  for  ten  minutes.  Then  there  was  the 
sound  of  something  being  hammered  to  pieces,  and  Spurstow 
emerged,  very  white  indeed. 

*'Have  you  got  a  picture?"  said  Mottram.  '^What  does 
the  thing  look  like?" 

"Nothing  there.  It  was  impossible,  of  course.  You 
needn't  look,  Mottram.  I've  torn  up  the  films.  There  was 
nothing  there.     It  was  impossible." 

"That,"  said  Lowndes,  very  distinctly,  watching  the 
shaking  hand  striving  to  relight  the  pipe,  "is  a  damned  He.'* 

There  was  no  further  speech  for  a  long  time.  The  hot 
wind  whistled  without,  and  the  dry  trees  sobbed.  Presently 
the  daily  train,  winking  brass,  burnished  steel,  and  spouting 
steam,  pulled  up  panting  in  the  intense  glare.  "We'd  better 
go  on  on  that,"  said  Spurstow.  "Go  back  to  work.  I've 
written  my  certificate.  We  can't  do  any  more  good  here. 
Come  on." 

Ko  one  moved.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  face  railway  jour- 
neys at  midday  in  June.  Spurstow  gathered  up  his  hat  and 
whip,  and,  turning  in  the  doorway,  said : 

"There  may  be  heaven — there  must  be  hell. 
Meantime,  there  is  our  hfe  here.     We-ell?" 

But  neither  Mottram  nor  Lowndes  had  any  answer  to 

the  question. 


100  U/orKs  of  r^udyard  l{lpl'iT)<^ 


THE    INCARNATION  OF    KRISHNA 
MULVANEY 

Once  upon  a  time,  and  very  far  from  this  land,  lived 
three  men  who  loved  each  other  so  greatly  that  neither  man 
nor  woman  could  come  between  them.  They  were  in  no 
sense  refined,  nor  to  be  admitted  to  the  outer  door-mats  of 
decent  folk,  because  they  happened  to  be  private  soldiers  in 
her  Majesty's  army;  and  private  soldiers  of  that  employ 
have  small  time  for  self -culture.  Their  duty  is  to  keep 
themselves  and  their  accouterments  specklessly  clean,  to  re- 
frain from  getting  drunk  more  often  than  is  necessary,  to 
obey  their  superiors,  and  to  pray  for  a  war.  All  these  things 
my  friends  accomplished,  and  of  their  own  motion  threw  in 
some  fighting- work  for  which  the  Army  Regulations  did  not 
call.  Their  fate  sent  them  to  serve  in  India,  which  is  not  a 
golden  country,  though  poets  have  sung  otherwise.  There 
men  die  with  great  swiftness,  and  those  who  live  suffer  many 
and  curious  things.  I  do  not  think  that  my  friends  con- 
cerned themselves  much  with  the  social  or  political  aspects 
of  the  East.  They  attended  a  not  unimportant  war  on  the 
northern  frontier,  another  one  on  our  western  boundary,  and 
a  third  in  Upper  Burma.  Then  their  regiment  sat  still  to 
recruit,  and  the  boundless  monotony  of  cantonment  life  was 
their  portion.  They  were  drilled  morning  and  evening  on 
the  same  dusty  parade-ground.  They  wandered  up  and 
down  the  same  stretch  of  dusty  white  road,  attended  the 
same  church  and  the  same  grog-shop,  and  slept  in  the  same 
lime-washed  barn  of  a  barrack  for  two  long  years.  There 
was  Mulvaney,  the  father  in  the  craft,  who  had  served  with 
various  regiments,  from  Bermuda  to  Halifax,  old  in  war, 
scarred,  reckless,  resourceful,  and  in  his  pious  hours  an  un- 
equaled  soldier.     To  him  turned  for  help  and  comfort  six 


f[\\T)e  OwT)  people  101 

and  a  half  feet  of  slow-moving,  heavy-footed  Yorkshiremanj 
born  on  the  wolds,  bred  in  the  dales,  and  educated  chiefly 
among  the  carriers'  carts  at  the  back  of  York  railway- sta- 
tion. His  name  was  Learoyd,  and  his  chief  virtue  an  un- 
mitigated patience  which  helped  him  to  win  fights.  How 
Ortheris,  a  fox-terrier  of  a  Cockney,  eT3r  came  to  be  one  of 
the  trio,  is  a  mystery  which  even  to-day  I  cannot  explain. 
*' There  was  always  three  av  us,"  Mulvaney  used  to  say. 
"An',  by  the  grace  av  God,  so  long  as  our  service  lasts,  three 
av  us  they'll  always  be.     'Tis  betther  so." 

They  desired  no  companionship  beyond  their  own,  and 
evil  it  was  for  any  man  of  the  regiment  who  attempted  dis» 
pute  with  them.  Physical  argument  was  out  of  the  question 
as  regarded  Mulvaney  and  the  Yorkshireman ;  and  assault 
on  Ortheris  meant  a  combined  attack  from  these  twain — a 
business  which  no  five  men  were  anxious  to  have  on  their 
hands.  Therefore  they  flourished,  sharing  their  drinks,  their 
tobacco,  and  their  money,  good  luck  and  evil,  battle  and  the 
chances  of  death,  life  and  the  chances  of  happiness  from 
Calicut  in  southern,  to  Peshawar  in  northern  India.  Through 
no  merit  of  my  own  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  in  a  meas- 
ure admitted  to  their  friendship — frankly  by  Mulvaney  from 
the  beginning,  sullenly  and  with  reluctance  by  Learoyd,  and 
suspiciously  by  Ortheris,  who  held  to  it  that  no  man  not  in 
the  army  could  fraternize  with  a  red-coat.  **Like  to  like," 
said, he.  *'I'm  a  bloomin'  sodger — he's  a  bloomin'  civilian. 
'Tain't  natural — that's  all." 

But  that  was  not  all.  They  thawed  progressively,  and 
in  the  thawing  told  me  more  of  their  lives  and  adventures 
than  I  am  likely  to  find  room  for  here. 

Omitting  all  else,  this  tale  begins  with  the  lamentable 
thirst  that  was  at  the  beginning  of  First  Causes.  ITever  was 
such  a  thirst — Mulvaney  told  me  so.  They  kicked  against 
their  compulsory  virtue,  but  the  attempt  was  only  successful 
in  the  case  of  Ortheris.  He,  whose  talents  were  many,  went 
forth  into  the  highways  and  stole  a  dog  from  a  "civilian" — 
t)idelicet,  some  one    he  knew  not  Who,  not  in  the  armyo 


i02  U/orl^s  of  r^adyard  l^iplip^ 

Now  that  civilian  was  but  newly  connected  by  marriage  with 
the  colonel  of  the  regiment,  and  outcry  was  made  from  quar- 
ters least  anticipated  by  Ortheris,  and,  in  the  end,  he  was 
forced,  lest  a  worse  thing  should  happen,  to  dispose  at  ridicu- 
lously unremunerative  rates  of  as  promising  a  small  terrier 
as  ever  graced  one  end  of  a  leading-string.  The  purchase- 
money  was  barely  sufficient  for  one  small  outbreak  which  led 
him  to  the  guard-room.  He  escaped,  however,  with  nothing 
worse  than  a  severe  reprimand,  and  a  few  hours  of  punish- 
ment drill.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  acquired  the  reputation 
of  being  "the  best  soldier  of  his  inches"  in  the  regiment. 
Mulvaney  had  taught  personal  cleanliness  and  efficiency  as 
the  first  articles  of  his  companions'  creed.  **  A  dhirty  man," 
he  was  used  to  say,  in  the  speech  of  his  kind,  '*goes  to  clink 
for  a  weakness  in  the  knees,  an'  is  coort-martialed  for  a  pair 
av  socks  missin' ;  but  a  clane  man,  such  as  is  an  ornament 
to  his  service — a  man  whose  buttons  are  gold,  whose  coat  is 
wax  upon  him,  an'  whose  'couterments  are  widout  a  speck — 
that  man  may,  spakin'  in  reason,  do  fwhat  he  likes,  an' 
dhrink  from  day  to  divil.     That's  the  pride  av  bein'  dacint." 

We  sat  together,  upon  a  day,  in  the  shade  of  a  ravine  far 
from  the  barracks,  where  a  water-course  used  to  run  in  rainy 
weather.  Behind  us  was  the  scrub  jungle,  in  which  jackals, 
peacocks,  the  gray  wolves  of  the  Northwestern  Provinces, 
and  occasionally  a  tiger  estrayed  from  Central  India,  were 
supposed  to  dwell.  In  front  lay  the  cantonment,  glaring 
white  under  a  glaring  sun,  and  on  either  side  ran  the  broad 
road  that  led  to  Delhi. 

It  was  the  scrub  that  suggested  to  my  mind  the  wisdom 
of  Mulvaney  taking  a  day's  leave  and  going  upon  a  shooting 
tour.  The  peacock  is  a  holy  bird  throughout  India,  and 
whoso  slays  one  is  in  danger  of  being  mobbed  by  the  nearest 
villagers ;  but  on  the  last  occasion  that  Mulvaney  had  gone 
forth  he  had  contrived,  without  in  the  least  offending  local 
religious  susceptibilities,  to  return  with  six  beautiful  peacock 
skins  which  he  sold  to  profit.     It  seemed  just  possible  then— - 

"But  fwhat  manner  av  use  is  ut  to  me  goin'  widout  a 


/I\ir?e  Ou/r>  people  103 

dhrink?  The  ground's  powdher-dhry  underfoot,  an'  ut  gets 
unto  the  throat  fit  to  kill, ' '  wailed  Mulvaney ,  looking  at  me 
reproachfully.  "An'  a  peacock  is  not  a  bird  you  can  catch 
the  tail  av  onless  ye  run.  Can  a  man  run  on  wather — an' 
jungle- wather  too?" 

Ortheris  had  considered  the  question  in  all  its  bearings. 
He  spoke,  chewing  his  pipe-stem  meditatively : 

''  'Go  forth,  return  in  glory. 
To  Clusium's  royal  'ome; 
An'  round  these  bloomin'  temples  'ang 
The  bloomin'  shields  o'  Kome. ' 

You'd  better  go.  You  ain't  to  shoot  yourself — not  while 
there's  a  chanst  of  liquor.  Me  an'  Learoyd'U  stay  at  'ome 
an'  keep  shop — case  o'  anythin'  turnin'  up.  But  you  go  out 
with  a  gas  pipe  gun  an'  ketch  the  little  peacockses  or  some- 
thin'.  You  kin  get  one  day's  leave  easy  as  winkin'.  Go 
along  an'  get  it,  an'  get  peacockses  or  somethin'." 

*' Jock,"  said  Mulvaney,  turning  to  Learoyd,  who  was  half 
asleep  under  the  shadow  of  the  bank.     He  roused  slowly. 

*'Sitha,  Mulvaney,  go,"  said  he. 

And  Mulvaney  went,  cursing  his  allies  with  Irish  fluency 
and  barrack-room  point. 

"Take  note,"  said  he,  when  he  had  won  his  holiday,  and 
appeared  dressed  in  his  roughest  clothes  with  the  only  other 
regimental  fowling-piece  in  his  hand — "take  note,  Jock,  an' 
you,  Orth'ris,  I  am  goin'  in  the  face  av  my  own  will — all  for 
to  please  you.  I  misdoubt  anythin'  will  come  av  permiscu- 
ous  huntin'  afther  peacockses  in  a  disolit  Ian' ;  an'  I  know 
that  I  will  lie  down  an'  die  wid  thirrst.  Me  catch  peacockses 
for  you,  ye  lazy  scuts — an'  be  sacrificed  by  the  peasanthry. ' ' 

He  waved  a  huge  paw  and  went  away. 

At  twilight,  long  before  the  appointed  hour,  he  returned 
empty-handed,  much  begrimed  with  dirt. 

"Peacockses?"  queried  Ortheris,  from  the  safe  rest  of  a 
barrack  room  table,  whereon  he  was  smoking  cross-legged. 
Learoyd  fast  asleep  on  a  bench. 


I04  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  \{\pUT)<^ 

"Jock,"  said  Mulvaney,  as  lie  stirred  up  the  sleeper. 
' '  Jock,  can  ye  fight?    Will  ye  fight?' ' 

Very  slowly  the  meaning  of  the  words  communicated  it- 
seK  to  the  half -roused  man.  He  understood — and  again — 
what  might  these  things  mean?  Mulvaney  was  shaking 
him  savagely.  Meantime,  the  men  in  the  room  howled 
with  delight.  There  was  war  in  the  confederacy  at  last — 
war  and  the  breaking  of  bonds. 

Barrack-room  etiquette  is  stringent.  On  the  direct  chal- 
lenge must  follow  the  direct  reply.  This  is  more  binding 
than  the  tie  of  tried  friendship.  Once  again  Mulvaney  re- 
peated the  question.  Learoyd  answered  by  the  only  means 
in  his  power,  and  so  swiftly  that  the  Irishman  had  barely 
time  to  avoid  the  blow.  The  laughter  around  increased. 
Learoyd  looked  bewilderedly  at  his  friend — himself  as  greatly 
bewildered.  Ortheris  dropped  from  the  table.  His  world 
was  falling. 

*'Come  outside,"  said  Mulvaney;  and  as  the  occupants  of 
the  barrack-room  prepared  joyously  to  follow,  he  turned  and 
said  furiously:  ** There  will  be  no  fight  this  night — onless  any 
wan  av  you  is  wishful  to  assist.  The  man  that  does,  follows 
on." 

N"o  man  moved.  The  three  passed  out  into  the  moon- 
light, Learoyd  fumbling  with  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  The 
parade-ground  was  deserted  except  for  the  scurrying  jackals. 
Mulvaney's  impetuous  rush  carried  his  companions  far  into 
the  open  ere  Learoyd  attempted  to  turn  round  and  continue 
the  discussion. 

"Be  still  now.  'Twas  my  fault  for  beginnin'  things  in 
the  middle  av  an  end,  Jock.  I  should  ha'  comminst  wid  an 
explanation;  but,  Jock  dear,  on  your  sowl,  are  ye  fit,  think 
you,  for  the  finest  fight  that  iver  was — betther  than  fightin' 
me?     Considher  before  ye  answer." 

More  than  ever  puzzled,  Learoyd  turned  round  two  or 
three  times,  felt  an  arm,  kicked  tentatively,  and  answered :  : 
"Ah'm  fit."     He  was  accustomed  to  fight  blindly  at  the 
bidding  of  the  superior  mind. 


(I\ii?e  0\jjT)  people  105 

They  sat  them  down,  the  men  looking  on  from  afar,  and 
Mulvaney  untangled  himself  in  mighty  words. 

"FoUowin'  your  fool's  scheme,  I  wint  out  into  the  thrack- 
less  desert  beyond  the  barricks.  An'  there  I  met  a  pious 
Hindu  dhriving  a  buUock-kyart.  I  tuk  ut  for  granted  he 
wud  be  delighted  for  to  convoy  me  a  piece,  an'  I  jumped 
in—" 

*'You  long,  lazy,  black-haired  swine,"  drawled  Ortheris, 
who  would  have  done  the  same  thing  under  similar  circum- 
stances. 

**  'Twas  the  height  av  policy.  That  naygur  man  dhruv 
miles  an'  miles — as  far  as  the  new  railway  line  they're  build- 
in'  now  back  av  the  Tavi  River.  '  'Tis  a  kyart  for  dhirt 
only,'  says  he  now  an'  again  timorously,  to  get  me  out  av 
ut.  *  Dhirt  I  am,'  sez  I,  *an'  the  dhryst  that  you  iver 
kyarted.  Dhrive  on,  me  son,  an'  glory  be  wid  you.'  At 
that  I  wint  to  slape,  an'  took  no  heed  till  he  pulled  up  on 
the  embankment  av  the  line  where  the  coolies  were  pilin' 
mud.  There  was  a  matther  av  two  thousand  coolies  on  that 
line — you  remimber  that.  Prisintly  a  bell  rang,  an'  they 
throops  off  to  a  big  pay-shed.  'Where's  the  white  man  in 
charge?'  sez  I  to  my  kyart-driver.  'In  the  shed,'  sez  he,  'en- 
gaged on  a  rif&e.'  'A  fwhat?'  sez  I.  'Riffle,'  sez  he.  'You 
take  ticket.  He  takes  money.  You  get  nothin'.'  'Oho!' 
sez  I,  'that's  fwhat  the  shuperior  an'  cultivated  man  calls  a 
raffle,  me  misbeguided  child  av  darkness  an'  sin.  Lead  on 
to  that  raffle,  though  fwhat  the  mischief  'tis  doin'  so  far 
away  from  uts  home — which  is  the  charity-bazaar  at  Christ- 
mas, an'  the  colonel's  wife  grinnin'  behind  the  tea-table — Is 
more  than  I  know.'  Wid  that  I  wint  to  the  shed  an'  found 
'twas  pay-day  among  the  coolies.  Their  wages  was  on  a 
table  forninst  a  big,  fine,  red  buck  av  a  man — sivun  fut 
high,  four  fut  wide,  an'  three  fut  thick,  wid  a  fist  on  him 
like  a  corn-sack.  He  was  pay  in'  the  coolies  fair  an'  easy^  but 
he  wud  ask  each  man  if  he  wud  raffle  that  month,  an'  each 
man  sez,  'Yes,  av  course.'  Thin  he  wud  deduct  from  theif 
wages  accordin'.     Whin  all  was  paid,  he  filled  an  ould  cigar- 


103  U/or^s  of  I^adyard  I^iplfr)^ 

box  full  av  gun- wads  an'  scattered  ut  among  the  coolies. 
They  did  not  take  much  joy  av  that  performince,  an'  small 
wondher.  A  man  close  to  me  picks  up  a  black  gun-wad,  an' 
sings  out,  *I  have  ut.'  *Good  may  ut  do  you,'  sez  I.  The 
coolie  wint  forward  to  this  big,  fine  red  man,  who  threw  a 
cloth  off  of  the  most  sumpshus,  jooled,  enameled,  an'  vari- 
ously bediviled  sedan-chair  I  iver  saw." 

''Sedan-chair!  Put  your  'ead  in  a  bag.  That  was  a 
palanquin.  Don't  yer  know  a  palanquin  when  you  see  it?'' 
said  Ortheris,  with  great  scorn. 

*'I  chuse  to  call  ut  sedan-chair,  an'  chair  ut  shall  be,  lit- 
tle man,"  continued  the  Irishman.  *'  'Twas  a  most  amazin' 
chair — all  Hned  wid  pink  silk  an'  fitted  wid  red  silk  curtains. 
*Here  ut  is,'  sez  the  red  man.  *Here  ut  is,'  sez  the  coolie, 
an'  he  grinned  weakly  ways.  'Is  ut  any  use  to  you?'  sez  the 
red  man.  'INTo,'  sez  the  coolie;  'I'd  like  to  make  a  presint 
av  ut  to  you.'  'I  am  graciously  pleased  to  accept  that  same,' 
sez  the  red  man ;  an'  at  that  all  the  coolies  cried  aloud  f what 
was  mint  for  cheerful  notes,  an'  wint  back  to  their  diggin', 
lavin'  me  alone  in  the  shed.  The  red  man  saw  me,  an'  his 
face  grew  blue  on  his  big,  fat  neck.  'Fwhat  d'you  want 
here?'  sez  he.  'Standin'-room  an'  no  more,'  sez  I,  'onless  it 
may  be  fwhat  ye  niver  had,  an'  that's  manners,  ye  ra£9.in' 
ruffian, '  for  I  was  not  goin'  to  have  the  service  throd  upon. 
'Out  of  this,'  sez  he.  'I'm  in  charge  av  this  section  av  con- 
struction.' 'I'm  in  charge  av  mesilf,'  sez  I,  'an'  it's  like  I 
will  stay  a  while.  D  'ye  raffle  much  in  these  parts?'  '  Fwhat 's 
that  to  you?'  sez  he.  'ITothin','  sez  I,  'but  a  great  dale  to 
you,  for,  bedad,  I'm  thinkin '  you  get  the  full  haK  av  your 
revenue  from  that  sedan-chair.  Is  ut  always  raffled  so?'  I 
sez,  an'  wid  that  I  wint  to  a  cooHe  to  ask  questions.  Bhoys, 
that  man's  name  is  Dearsley,  an'  he's  been  rafflin'  that  ould 
sedan-chair  monthly  this  matter  av  nine  months.  Ivry  coolie 
on  the  section  takes  a  ticket — or  he  gives  'em  the  go — ^wanst 
a  month  on  pay-day.  Ivry  coolie  that  wins  ut  gives  ut  back  , 
to  him,  for  'tis  too  big  to  carry  away,  an'  he'd  sack  the  man  ' 
that  thried  to  sell  ut.     That  Dearsley  has  been  makin'  the 


fT\\T)e  Omjt)  people  107 

rowlin'  wealth  av  Eoshus  by  nefarious  rafflin'.  Two  thou- 
sand cooHes  defrauded  wanst  a  month!" 

"Dom  t'  cooHes.  Hast  gotten  t'  cheer,  man?"  said  Lea- 
royd. 

"Hould  on.  Havin'  onearthed  this  amazin'  an'  stupenjus 
fraud  committed  by  the  man  Dearsley,  I  hild  a  council  av 
war;  he  thryin'  all  the  time  to  sejuce  me  into  a  fight  wid  op- 
probrious language.  That  sedan-chair  niver  belonged  by 
right  to  any  foreman  av  coolies.  'Tis  a  king's  chair  or  a 
quane's.  There's  gold  on  ut  an'  silk  an'  all  manner  av 
trapesemints.  Bhoys,  'tis  not  for  me  to  countenance  any 
sort  av  wrong-doin' — me  bein'  the  ould  man — but — any  way 
he  has  had  ut  nine  months,  an'  he  dare  not  make  throuble  av 
ut  was  taken  from  him.  Five  miles  away,  or  ut  may  be  six — " 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  the  jackals  howled  merrily. 
Learoyd  bared  one  arm  and  contemplated  it  in  the  moonlight. 
Then  he  nodded  partly  to  himself  and  partly  to  his  friends. 
Ortheris  wriggled  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"I  thought  ye  wud  see  the  reasonableness  av  ut,"  said 
Mulvaney .  * '  I  made  bould  to  say  as  much  to  the  man  be- 
fore. He  was  for  a  direct  front  attack — fut,  horse,  an'  guns 
— an'  all  for  nothin',  seein'  that  I  had  no  transport  to  convey 
the  machine  away.  *I  will  not  argue  wid  you,'  sez  I,  'this 
day,  but  subsequintly.  Mister  Dearsley,  me  rafflin'  jool,  we'll 
talk  ut  out  lengthways.  'Tis  no  good  policy  to  swindle  the 
naygur  av  his  hard-earned  emolumints,  an'  by  presint  in- 
formashin' —'twas  the  kyart  man  that  tould  me — *ye've  been 
perpethrating  that  same  for  nine  months.  But  I'm  a  just 
man,'  sez  I,  'an'  overlookin'  the  presumpshin  that  yondher 
settee  wid  the  gilt  top  was  not  come  by  honust' — at  that  he 
turned  sky-green,  so  I  knew  things  was  more  thrue  than 
tellable — 'I'm  willin'  to  compound  the  felony  for  this  month's 
winnin's.'  " 

"Ah!     Ho!"  from  Learoyd  and  Ortheris. 

"That  man  Dearsley 's  rushin'  on  his  fate,"  continued 
Mulvaney,  solemnly  wagging  his  head.  "All  hell  had  no 
name  bad  enough  for  me  that  tide.     Faith,  he  called  me  a 


108  U/orl^s  of  P^adyard  \{ipl'iT)(^ 

robber !  Me !  tbat  was  savin'  him  from  continuin'  in  his  evil 
ways  widout  a  remonstrince — an'  to  a  man  av  conscience  a 
remonstrince  may  change  the  chune  av  his  life.  '  'Tis  not 
for  me  to  argue,'  sez  I,  'f whatever  ye  are,  Mister  Dearsley, 
but  by  my  hand  I'll  take  away  the  temptation  for  you  that 
lies  in  that  sedan-chair.'  *You  will  have  to  fight  me  for  ut,' 
sez  he,  'for  well  I  know  you  will  never  dare  make  report  to 
any  one.'  *  Fight  I  will,'  sez  I,  'but  not  this  day,  for  I'm 
rejuced  for  want  av  nourishment.'  'Ye're  an  ould  bould 
hand,'  sez  he,  sizin'  me  up  an'  down;  'an'  a  jool  av  a  fight 
we  will  have.  Eat  now  an'  dhrink,  an'  go  your  way. '  Wid 
that  he  gave  me  some  hump  an'  whisky — good  whisky — an' 
we  talked  av  this  an'  that  the  while.  'It  goes  hard  on  me 
now,'  sez  I,  wipin'  my  mouth,  'to  confiscate  that  piece  av 
furniture;  but  justice  is  justice.'  'Ye've  not  got  ut  yet,'  sez 
he;  'there's  the  fight  between.'  'There  is,'  sez  T,  'an'  a  good 
fight.  Ye  shall  have  the  pick  av  the  best  quality  in  my  regi- 
ment for  the  dinner  you  have  given  this  day. '  Thin  I  came 
hot-foot  for  you  two.  Hould  your  tongue,  the  both.  'Tis 
this  way.  To-morrow  we  three  will  go  there  an'  he  shall 
have  his  pick  betune  me  an'  Jock.  Jock's  a  deceivin'  fighter, 
for  he  is  all  fat  to  the  eyes,  an'  he  moves  slow.  iN'ow  I'm 
all  beef  to  the  look,  an'  I  move  quick.  By  my  reckonin', 
the  Dearsley  man  won't  take  me;  so  me  an'  Orth'ris  '11  see 
fair  play.  Jock,  I  tell  you,  'twill  be  big  fightin' — whipped, 
wid  the  cream  above  the  jam.  Afther  the  business  'twill 
take  a  good  three  av  us — Jock'll  be  very  hurt — to  take  away 
that  sedan-chair." 

"Palanquin."     This  from  Ortheris. 

"F whatever  ut  is,  we  must  have  ut.  'Tis  the  only  sellin' 
piece  av  property  widin  reach  that  we  can  get  so  cheap.  An' 
fwhat's  a  fight  afther  all?  He  has  robbed  the  naygur  man 
dishonust.     "We  rob  him  honust. " 

"But  wot'U  we  do  with  the  bloomin'  harticle  when  we've 
got  it?  Them  palanquins  are  as  big  as  'ouses,  an'  uncom- 
mon 'ard  to  seU,  as  McCleary  said  when  ye  stole  the  sentry- 
box  from  the  Curragh."      * 


/I\ii>e  Omjt)  people  109 

•^"Who's  goin'  to  do  t'  fightin'?"  said  Learoyd,  and  Orth- 
eris  subsided.  The  three  returned  to  barracks  without  a 
word.  Mulvaney's  last  argument  clinched  the  matter. 
This  palanquin  was  property,  vendible  and  to  be  attained 
in  the  least  embarrassing  fashion.  It  would  eventually  be- 
come beer.     Great  was  Mulvaney. 

Next  afternoon  a  procession  of  three  formed  itseK  and 
disappeared  into  the  scrub  in  the  direction  of  the  new  rail- 
way line.  Learoyd  alone  was  without  care,  for  Mulvaney 
dived  darkly  into  the  future  and  little  Ortheris  feared  the 
unknown. 

What  befell  at  that  interview  in  the  lonely  pay-shed  by 
the  side  of  the  half -built  embankment  only  a  few  hundred 
coolies  know,  and  their  tale  is  a  confusing  one,  running  thus : 

/'We  were  at  work.  Three  men  in  red  coats  came.  They 
saw  the  sahib — Dearsley  Sahib.  They  made  oration,  and 
noticeably  the  small  man  among  the  red-coats.  Dearsley 
Sahib  also  made  oration,  and  used  many  very  strong  words. 
Upon  this  talk  they  departed  together  to  an  open  space,  and 
there  the  fat  man  in  the  red  coat  fought  with  Dearsley  Sahib 
after  the  custom  of  white  men — with  his  hands,  making  no 
noise,  and  never  at  all  pulling  Dearsley  Sahib's  hair.  Such 
of  us  as  were  not  afraid  beheld  these  things  for  just  so  long  a 
time  as  a  man  needs  to  cook  the  midday  meal.  The  small 
man  in  the  red  coat  had  possessed  himself  of  Dearsley  Sahib's 
watch.  Ko,  he  did  not  steal  that  watch.  He  held  it  in  his 
hands,  and  at  certain  season  made  outcry,  and  the  twain 
ceased  their  combat,  which  was  like  the  combat  of  young 
bulls  in  spring.  Both  men  were  soon  all  red,  but  Dearsley 
Sahib  was  much  more  red  than  the  other.  Seeing  this,  and 
fearing  for  his  life — because  we  greatly  loved  him — some 
fifty  of  us  made  shift  to  rush  upon  the  red-coats.  But  a  cer- 
tain man — very  black  as  to  the  hair,  and  in  no  way  to  be 
confused  with  the  small  man,  or  the  fat  man  who  fought — 
that  man,  we  affirm,  ran  upon  us,  and  of  us  he  embraced 
some  ten  or  fifty  in  both  arms,  and  beat  our  heads  together, 
so  that  our  livers  turned  to  water,  and  we  ran  away.     It  is 


110  U/orKs  of  I^udyard  t^iplii)^ 

not  good  to  interfere  in  the  fightings  of  white  men.  After 
that  Dearsley  Sahib  fell  and  did  not  rise;  these  men  jumped 
upon  his  stomach  and  despoiled  him  of  all  his  money,  and 
attempted  to  fire  the  pay-shed,  and  departed.  Is  it  true  that 
Dearsley  Sahib  makes  no  complaint  of  these  latter  things 
having  been  done?  We  were  senseless  with  fear,  and  do  not 
at  all  remember.  There  was  no  palanquin  near  the  pay- 
shed.  What  do  we  know  about  palanquins?  Is  it  true  that 
Dearsley  Sahib  does  not  return  to  this  place,  on  account  of 
sickness,  for  ten  days?  This  is  the  fault  of  those  bad  men  in 
the  red  coats,  who  should  be  severely  punished;  for  Dearsley 
Sahib  is  both  our  father  and  mother,  and  we  love  him  much. 
Yet  if  Dearsley  Sahib  does  not  return  to  this  place  at  all,  we 
will  speak  the  truth.  There  was  a  palanquin,  for  the  up- 
keep of  which  we  were  forced  to  pay  nine-tenths  of  our 
monthly  wage.  On  such  mulctings  Dearsley  Sahib  allowed 
us  to  make  obeisance  to  him  before  the  palanquin.  What 
could  we  do?  We  were  poor  men.  He  took  a  full  half  of 
our  wages.  Will  the  government  repay  us  those  moneys? 
Those  three  men  in  red  coats  bore  the  palanquin  upon  their 
shoulders  and  departed.  All  the  money  that  Dearsley  Sahib 
had  taken  from  us  was  in  the  cushions  of  that  palanquin. 
Therefore  they  stole  it.  Thousands  of  rupees  were  there — 
all  our  money.  It  was  our  bank-box,  to  fill  which  we  cheer- 
fully contributed  to  Dearsley  Sahib  three-sevenths  of  our 
monthly  wage.  Why  does  the  white  man  look  upon  us  with 
the  eye  of  disfavor?  Before  God,  there  was  a  palanquin, 
and  now  there  is  no  palanquin;  and  if  they  send  the  police 
here  to  make  inquisition,  we  can  only  say  that  there  never 
has  been  any  palanquin.  Why  should  a  palanquin  be  near 
these  works?     We  are  poor  men,  and  we  know  nothing.** 

Such  is  the  simplest  version  of  the  simplest  story  con- 
nected with  the  descent  upon  Dearsley.  From  the  lips  of  the 
coolies  I  received  it.  Dearsley  himself  was  in  no  condition 
to  say  anything,  and  Mulvaney  preserved  a  massive  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  occasional  licking  of  the  lips.  He  had 
seen  a  fight  so  gorgeous  that  even  his  power  of  speech  was 


/I\ii?e  Oujo  people  111 

taken  from  him.  I  respected  that  reserve  until,  three  days 
after  the  affair,  I  discovered  in  a  disused  stable  in  my  quar- 
ters a  palanquin  of  unchastened  splendor — evidently  in  past 
days  the  litter  of  a  queen.  The  pole  whereby  it  swung  be- 
tween the  shoulders  of  the  bearers  was  rich  with  the  painted 
papier-mache  of  Cashmere.  The  shoulder-pads  were  of  yel- 
low silk.  The  panels  of  the  litter  itseK  were  ablaze  with  the 
loves  of  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  the  Hindu  Pantheon 
— lacquer  on  cedar.  The  cedar  sliding-doors  were  fitted 
with  hasps  of  translucent  Jaipur  enamel,  and  ran  in  gTOOves 
shod  with  silver.  The  cushions  were  of  brocaded  Delhi  silk, 
and  the  curtains,  which  once  hid  any  glimpse  of  the  beauty 
of  the  king's  palace,  were  stiff  with  gold.  Closer  investiga- 
tion showed  that  the  entire  fabric  was  everywhere  rubbed 
and  discolored  by  time  and  wear ;  but  even  thus  it  was  suffi- 
ciently gorgeous  to  deserve  housing  on  the  threshold  of  a 
royal  zenana.  I  found  no  fault  with  it,  except  that  it  was 
in  my  stable.  Then,  trying  to  lift  it  by  the  silver-shod  shoul- 
der-pole, I  laughed.  The  road  from  Dearsley's  pay-shed  to 
the  cantonment  was  a  narrow  and  uneven,  one,  and,  traversed 
by  three  very  inexperienced  palanquin-bearers,  one  of  whom 
was  sorely  battered  about  the  head,  must  have  been  a  path 
of  torment.  Still  I  did  not  quite  recognize  the  right  of  the 
three  musketeers  to  turn  me  into  a  "fence." 

"I'm  askin'  you  to  warehouse  ut,"  said  Mulvaney,  when 
he  was  brought  to  consider  the  question.  "There's  no  steal 
in  ut.  Dearsley  tould  us  we  cud  have  ut  if  we  fought.  Jock 
fought — an',  oh,  sorr,  when  the  throuble  was  at  uts  finest  an' 
Jock  was  bleedin'  hke  a  stuck  pig,  an'  little  Orth'ris  was 
shquealin'  on  one  leg,  cliewin'  big  bites  out  av  Dearsley's 
watch,  I  wud  ha'  given  my  place  at  the  fight  to  have  had 
you  see  wan  round.  He  tuk  Jock,  as  I  suspicioned  he  would, 
an'  Jock  was  deceptive.  Nine  roun's  they  were  even  matched, 
an'  at  the  tenth —  About  that  palanquin  now.  There's  not 
the  least  trouble  in  the  world,  or  we  wud  not  ha'  brought  ut 
here.  You  will  ondherstand  that  the  queen — God  bless  her! 
— does  not  reckon  for  a  privit  soldier  to  kape  elephints  an' 


112  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  i^iplir>($ 

palanquins  an'  sich  in  barricks.  Afther  we  had  dhragged 
ut  down  from  Dearsley's  through  that  cruel  scrub  that  n'r 
broke  Orth'ris'  heart,  we  set  ut  in  the  ravine  for  a  night;  an' 
a  thief  av  a  porcupine  an'  a  civit-cat  av  a  jackal  roosted  in 
ut,  as  well  we  knew  in  the  mornin'.  I  put  ut  to  you,  sorr, 
is  an  elegant  palanquin,  fit  for  the  princess,  the  natural 
abidin' -place  av  all  the  vermin  in  cantonmints?  "We  brought 
ut  to  you,  afther  dhark,  and  put  ut  in  your  shtable.  Do  not 
let  your  conscience  prick.  Think  av  the  rejoicin'  men  in  the 
pay-shed  yonder — lookin'  at  Dearsley  wid  his  head  tied  up  in 
a  towel — an'  well  knowin'  that  they  can  dhraw  their  pay 
ivery  month  widout  stoppages  for  riffles.  Indirectly,  sorr, 
you  have  rescued  from  an  onprincipled  son  av  a  night-hawk 
the  peasantry  av  a  numerous  village.  An'  besides,  will  I  let 
that  sedan-chair  rot  on  your  hands?  Not  I.  'Tis  not  every 
day  a  piece  av  pure  joolry  comes  into  the  market.  There's 
not  a  king  widin  these  forty  miles" — he  waved  his  hand 
round  the  dusty  horizon — "not  a  king  wud  not  be  glad  to 
buy  it.  Some  day  meself,  whin  I  have  leisure,  I'll  take  ut 
up  along  the  road  an'  dispose  av  ut." 

"How?"  said  I. 

"Get  into  ut,  av  course,  an'  keep  wan  eye  open  through 
the  curtain.  Whin  I  see  a  likely  man  of  the  native  persua- 
sion, I  will  descend  blushin'  from  my  canopy,  and  say:  'Buy 
a  palanquin,  ye  black  scut?'  I  will  have  to  hire  four  men  to 
carry  me  first  though ;  and  that's  impossible  till  next  pay-day. ' ' 

Curiously  enough,  Learoyd,  who  had  fought  for  the  prize, 
and  in  the  winning  secured  the  highest  pleasure  life  had  to 
ofPer  him,  was  altogether  disposed  to  undervalue  it,  while 
Ortheris  openly  said  it  would  be  better  to  break  the  thing  up. 
Dearsley,  he  argued,  might  be  a  many-sided  man,  capable, 
despite  his  magnificent  fighting  qualities,  of  setting  in  motion 
the  machinery  of  the  civil  law,  a  thing  much  abhorred  by  the 
soldier.  Under  the  circumstances  their  fun  had  come  and 
passed;  the  next  pay-day  was  close  at  hand,  when  there 
would  be  beer  for  all.  Wherefore  longer  conserve  the  painted 
palanquin? 


/I\ipe  Ou/Q  people  113 

**A  first-class  rifle-shot  an'  a  good  little  man  av  your 
inches  you  are,"  said  Mulvaney.  "But  you  niver  had  a  head 
worth  a  soft-boiled  egg.  'Tis  me  has  to  lie  awake  av  nights 
schamin'  an'  plottin'  for  the  three  av  us.  Orth'ris,  me  son, 
'tis  no  matther  av  a  few  gallons  av  beer — no,  nor  twenty 
gallons — but  tubs  an'  vats  an'  firkins  in  that  sedan-chair." 

Meantime,  the  palanquin  stayed  in  my  stall,  the  key  of 
vfhich  was  in  Mulvaney 's  hand. 

Pay-day  came,  and  with  it  beer.  It  was  not  in  experience 
to  hope  that  Mulvaney,  dried  by  four  weeks'  drought,  would 
avoid  excess.  Next  morning  he  and  the  palanquin  had  dis- 
appeared. He  had  taken  the  precaution  of  getting  three 
days'  leave  "to  see  a  friend  on  the  railway,"  and  the  colonel, 
well  knowing  that  the  seasonal  outburst  was  near,  and  hoping 
it  would  spend  its  force  beyond  the  limits  of  his  jurisdiction, 
cheerfully  gave  him  all  he  demanded.  At  this  point  his 
history,  as  recorded  in  the  mess-room,  stopped. 

Ortheris  carried  it  not  much  further.  "ISTo,  'e  wasn't 
drunk,"  said  the  Httle  man,  loyally,  "the  liquor  was  no  more 
than  feelin'  its  way  round  inside  of  'im;  but  'e  went  an'  filled 
tliat  'ole  bloomin'  palanquin  with  bottles  'fore  'e  went  off. 
He's  gone  an'  'ired  six  men  to  carry  'im,  an'  I  'ad  to  'elp  'im 
into  'is  nupshal  couch,  'cause  'e  wouldn't  'ear  reason.  'E's 
gone  off  in  'is  shirt  an'  trousies,  swearin'  tremenjus — gone 
down  the  road  in  the  palanquin,  wavin'  'is  legs  out  o'  windy." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "but  where?" 

"Now  you  arx  me  a  question.  'E  said  'e  was  going  to 
sell  that  palanquin;  but  from  observations  what  happened 
when  I  was  stuffin'  'im  through  the  door,  I  fancy  'e's  gone 
to  the  new  embankment  to  mock  at  Dearsley.  Soon  as  Jock's 
off  duty  I'm  going  there  to  see  if  'e's  safe — not  Mulvaney,  but 
t'other  man.  My  saints,  but  I  pity  'im  as  'elps  Terence  out 
o'  the  palanquin  when  'e's  once  fair  drunk!" 

"He'U  come  back,"  I  said. 

"'Corse  'e  will.  On'y  question  is,  what'U  'e  be  doin'  on 
the  road.  Killing  Dearsley,  like  as  not.  'E  shouldn't  'a'  gone 
without  Jock  or  me. ' ' 


114  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplip^ 

Re-enforced  by  Learoyd,  Ortheris  sought  the  foreman  of 
the  coohe-gang.  Dearsley's  head  was  still  embellished  with 
towels.  Mulvaney,  drunk  or  sober,  would  have  struck  no 
man  in  that  condition,  and  Dearsley  indignantly  denied  that 
he  would  have  taken  advantage  of  the  intoxicated  brave. 

"I  had  my  pick  o'  you  two,"  he  explained  to  Learoyd, 
"and  you  got  my  palanquin — not  before  I'd  made  my  profit 
on  it.  "Why'd  I  do  harm  when  everything's  settled?  Your 
man  did  come  here — drunk  as  Davy's  cow  on  a  frosty  night 
— came  a-purpose  to  mock  me — stuck  his  'ead  out  of  the  door 
an'  called  me  a  crucified  hodman.  I  made  him  drunker,  an' 
sent  him  along.     But  I  never  touched  him." 

To  these  things  Learoyd,  slow  to  perceive  the  evidences  of 
sincerity,  answered  only :  '  *  If  owt  comes  to  Mulvaney  long  o' 
you,  I'll  gripple  you,  clouts  or  no  clouts  on  your  ugly  head, 
an'  I'll  draw  t'  throat  twisty- ways,  man.     See  there  now." 

The  embassy  removed  itself,  and  Dearsley,  the  battered, 
laughed  alone  over  his  supper  that  evening. 

Three  days  passed — a  fourth  and  a  fifth.  The  week  drew 
to  a  close,  and  Mulvaney  did  not  return.  He,  his  royal 
palanquin,  and  his  six  attendants,  had  vanished  into  air.  A 
very  large  and  very  tipsy  soldier,  his  feet  sticking  out  of  the 
litter  of  a  reigning  princess,  is  not  a  thing  to  travel  along  the 
ways  without  comment.  Yet  no  man  of  all  the  country 
round  had  seen  any  such  wonder.  He  was,  and  he  was  not; 
and  Learoyd  suggested  the  immediate  smashment  as  a  sacri- 
fice to  his  ghost.     Ortheris  insisted  that  all  was  well. 

"When  Mulvaney  goes  up  the  road,"  said  he,  '"e's  like 
to  go  a  very  long  ways  up,  especially  when  'e's  so  blue  drunk 
as  'e  is  now.  But  what  gits  me  is  'is  not  bein'  'eard  of 
puUin'  wool  of  the  niggers  somewheres  about.  That  don't 
look  good.  The  drink  must  ha'  died  out  in  'im  by  this,  un- 
less 'e's  broke  a  bank,  an'  then —  Why  don't  'e  come  back? 
'E  didn't  ought  to  ha'  gone  off  without  us." 

Even  Ortheris'  heart  sunk  at  the  end  of  the  seventh  day, 
for  half  the  regiment  were  out  scouring  the  country-sides,  and 
Learoyd  had  been  forced  to  fight  two  men  who  hinted  openly 


fT[\T)e  0\jjT)  people  115 

that  Mulvaney  had  deserted.  To  do  him  justice,  the  colonel 
laughed  at  the  notion,  even  when  it  was  put  forward  by  his 
much-trusted  adjutant. 

*' Mulvaney  would  as  soon  think  of  deserting  as  you 
would,"  said  he.  "No;  he's  either  fallen  into  a  mischief 
among  the  villagers — and  yet  that  isn't  hkely,  for  he'd  blarney 
himself  out  of  the  pit ;  or  else  he  is  engaged  on  urgent  private 
affairs — some  stupendous  devilment  that  we  shall  hear  of  at 
mess  after  it  has  been  the  round  of  the  barrack-rooms.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  I  shall  have  to  give  him  twenty-eight  days' 
confinement  at  least  for  being  absent  without  leave,  just  when 
I  most  want  him  to  lick  the  new  batch  of  recruits  into  shape. 
I  never  knew  a  man  who  could  put  a  polish  on  young  soldiers 
as  quickly  as  Mulvaney  can.     How  does  he  do  it?" 

**With  blarney  and  the  buckle-end  of  a  belt,  sir,"  said  the 
adjutant.  ' '  He  is  worth  a  couple  of  non-commissioned  officers 
when  we  are  dealing  with  an  Irish  draft,  and  the  London  lads 
seem  to  adore  him.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  if  he  goes  to  the 
cells  the  other  two  are  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind  till  he  comes 
out  again.  I  believe  Ortheris  preaches  .mutiny  on  those 
occasions,  and  I  know  that  the  mere  presence  of  Learoyd 
mourning  for  Mulvaney  kills  all  the  cheerfulness  of  his  room. 
The  sergeants  tell  me  that  he  allows  no  man  to  laugh  when 
he  feels  unhappy.     They  are  a  queer  gang. ' ' 

"For  all  that,  I  wish  we  had  a  few  more  of  them.  I  like 
a  well-conducted  regiment,  but  these  pasty-faced,  shifty-eyed, 
mealy-mouthed  young  slouchers  from  the  depot  worry  me 
sometimes  with  their  offensive  virtue.  They  don't  seem  to 
have  backbone  enough  to  do  anything  but  play  cards  and 
prowl  round  the  married  quarters.  I  believe  I'd  forgive  that 
old  villain  on  the  spot  if  he  turned  up  with  any  sort  of 
explanation  that  I  could  in  decency  accept. ' ' 

"Not  likely  to  be  much  difficulty  about  that,  sir,"  said  the 
adjutant.  "  Mulvaney 's  explanations  are  one  degree  less 
wonderful  than  his  performances.  They  say  that  when  he 
was  in  the  Black  Tyrone,  before  he  came  to  us,  he  was  dis- 
covered on  the  banks  of  the  Liffey  trying  to  sell  his  colonel's 


il6  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{ipVii)(^ 

charger  to  a  Donegal  dealer  as  a  perfect  lady's  hack.  Shak- 
bolt  commanded  the  Tyrone  then. ' ' 

"Shakbolt  must  have  had  apoplexy  at  the  thought  of  his 
ramping  war-horses  answering  to  that  description.  He  used 
to  buy  unbacked  devils  and  tame  them  by  starvation.  What 
did  Mulvaney  say?" 

"That  he  was  a  member  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention 
of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  anxious  to  *sell  the  poor  baste  where 
he  would  get  something  to  fill  out  his  dimples.'  Shakbolt 
laughed,  but  I  fancy  that  was  why  Mulvaney  exchanged  to 
ours." 

"I  wish  he  were  back,"  said  the  colonel;  "for  I  hke  him, 
and  believe  he  likes  me." 

That  evening,  to  cheer  our  souls,  Learoyd,  Ortheris,  and 
I  went  into  the  waste  to  smoke  out  a  porcupine.  All  the  dogs 
attended,  but  even  their  clamor — and  they  began  to  discuss 
the  shortcomings  of  porcupines  before  they  left  cantonments 
— could  not  take  us  out  of  ourselves.  A  large,  low  moon 
turned  the  tops  of  the  plume  grass  to  silver,  and  the  stunted 
camel-thorn  bushes  and  sour  tamarisks  into  the  hkeness  of 
trooping  devils.  The  smell  of  the  sun  had  not  left  the  earth, 
and  little  aimless  winds,  blowing  across  the  rose  gardens  to 
the  southward,  brought  the  scent  of  dried  roses  and  water. 
Our  fire  once  started,  and  the  dogs  craftily  disposed  to  wait 
the  dash  of  the  porcupine,  we  chmbed  to  the  top  of  a  rain- 
scarred  hillock  of  earth,  and  looked  across  the  scrub,  seamed 
with  cattle-paths,  white  with  the  long  grass,  and  dotted  with 
spots  of  level  pond-bottom,  where  the  snipe  would  gather  in 
winter. 

"This,"  said  Ortheris,  with  a  sigh,  as  he  took  in  the  un- 
kempt desolation  of  it  all,  "this  is  sanguinary.  This  is  un- 
usual sanguinary.  Sort  o'  mad  country.  Like  a  grate  when 
the  fire's  .put  out  by  the  sun."  He  shaded  his  eyes  against 
the  moonhght.  "An'  there's  a  loony  dancin'  in  the  middle 
of  it  all.  Quite  right.  I'd  dance,  too,  if  I  wasn't  so  down- 
heart.  ' ' 

There  pranced  a  portent  in  the  face  of  the  moon — a  huge 


(I\ipe  Ou/p  people  117 

and  ragged  spirit  of  the  waste,  that  flapped  its  wings  from 
afar.  It  had  risen  out  of  the  earth ;  it  was  coming  toward 
us,  and  its  outhne  was  never  twice  the  same.  The  toga, 
tablecloth,  or  dressing-gown,  whatever  the  creature  wore, 
took  a  hundred  shapes.  Once  it  stopped  on  a  neighboring 
mound  and  flung  all  its  legs  and  arms  to  the  winds. 
j  *'My,  but  that  scarecrow  'as  got  'em  bad!"  said  Ortheris. 
*' Seems  like  if  'e  comes  any  furder  we'll  'ave  to  argify 
with  'im." 

i  Learoyd  raised  himself  from  the  dirt  as  a  bull  clears  his 
flanks  of  the  wallow.  And  as  a  bull  bellows,  so  he,  after  a 
short  minute  at  gaze,  gave  tongue  to  the  stars. 

' '  Mulvaney !  Mulvaney !     A  hoo ! ' ' 

Then  we  yelled  all  together,  and  the  figure  dipped  into  the 
hollow  till,  with  a  crash  of  rending  grass,  the  lost  one  strode 
up  to  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  disappeared  to  the  waist  in  a 
wave  of  joyous  dogs.  Then  Learoyd  and  Ortheris  gave 
greeting  bass  and  falsetto. 

"You  damned  fool!"  said  they,  and  severally  punched 
him  with  their  fists. 

*'Go  easy!"  he  answered,  wrapping  a  huge  arm  round 
each.  "I  would  have  you  to  know  that  I  am  a  god,  to  be 
treated  as  such — though,  by  my  faith,  I  fancy  I've  got  to  go 
to  the  guard-room  just  like  a  privit  soldier. ' ' 

The  latter  part  of  the  sentence  destroyed  the  suspicions 
raised  by  the  former.  Any  one  would  have  been  justified  in 
regarding  Mulvaney  as  mad.  He  was  hatless  and  shoeless, 
and  his  shirt  and  trousers  were  dropping  off  him.  But  he 
wore  one  wondrous  garment — a  gigantic  cloak  that  fell  from 
collar-bone  to  heels — of  pale  pink  silk,  wrought  all  over,  in 
cunningest  needlework  of  hands  long  since  dead,  with  the 
loves  of  the  Hindu  gods.  The  monstrous  figures  leaped  in 
and  out  of  the  light  of  the  fire  as  he  settled  the  folds  round  him. 

Ortheris  handled  the  stuff  respectfully  for  a  moment  while 
I  was  trying  to  remember  where  I  had  seen  it  before. 

Then  he  screamed:  *'What  ^ave  you  done  with  the  palan- 
quin?    You're  wearin'  the  linin'." 


118  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{\plU)(^ 

^*I  am,"  said  the  Irisliman,  "an'  by  the  same  .oken  the 
'broidery  is  scrapin'  me  hide  off.  I've  Hved  in  this  sumpshus 
counterpane  for  four  days.  Me  son,  I  begin  to  ondherstand 
why  the  naygur  is  no  use.  "Widout  me  boots,  an'  me  trousers 
like  an  open-work  stocking  on  a  gyurl's  leg  at  a  dance,  I 
began  to  feel  like  a  naygur — all  timorous.  Give  me  a  pipe 
an'  I'll  tell  on." 

He  Hghted  a  pipe,  resumed  his  grip  of  his  two  friends,  and 
rocked  to  and  fro  in  a  gale  of  laughter. 

''Mulvaney,"  said  Ortheris,  sternly,  *"tain't  no  time  for 
laughin'.  You've  given  Jock  an'  me  more  trouble  than 
you're  worth.  You  'ave  been  absent  without  leave,  and 
you'll  go  into  the  cells  for  that;  an'  you  'ave  come  back  dis- 
gustingly dressed,  an'  most  improper,  in  the  linin'  o'  that 
bloomin'  palanquin.  Instid  of  which  you  laugh.  An'  we 
thought  you  was  dead  all  the  time. ' '  i 

"Bhoys,"  said  the  culprit,  still  shaking  gently,  *'whin  I've 
done  my  tale  you  may  cry  if  you  hke,  an'  little  Orth'ris  here 
can  thrample  my  insides  out.  Ha'  done  an'  listen.  My  per- 
f orminces  have  been  stupenjus ;  my  luck  has  been  the  blessed 
luck  of  the  British  army— an'  there's  no  better  than  that.  I 
went  out  drunk  an'  drinking  in  the  palanquin,  and  I  have 
come  back  a  pink  god.  Did  any  of  you  go  to  Dearsley  afther 
my  time  was  up?     He  was  at  the  bottom  of  ut  all." 

"Ah  said  so,"  murmured  Learoyd.  "To-morrow  ah'U 
smash  t'  face  in  upon  his  head." 

"Ye  will  not.      Dearsley 's  a  jool  av  a  man.      Afther 
Orth'ris  had  put  me  into  the  palanquin  an'  the  six  bearer-men 
were  gruntin'  down  the  road,  I  tuk  thought  to  mock  Dearsley 
for  that  fight.     So  I  tould  thim :  '  Go  to  the  embankment, ' 
and  there,  bein'  most  amazin'  fuU,  I  shtuck  my  head  out  av 
the  concern  an'  passed  compliments  wid  Dearsley.     I  must 
ha'  miscalled  him  outrageous,  for  whin  I  am  that  way  the 
power  of  the  tongue  comes  on  me.     I  can   bare    remimberr 
tellin'  him  that  his  mouth  opened  endways  like  the  mouth  off 
a  skate,  which  was  thrue  afther  Learoyd  had  handled  ut ;  an' ' 
I  clear  remimber  his  taking  no  manner  nor  matter  of  offense, 


/I\ir)e  Ou/i>  people  119 

but  givin'  me  a  big  dhrink  of  beer.  'Twas  the  beer  that  did 
the  thrick,  for  I  crawled  back  into  the  palanquin,  steppin'  on 
me  right  ear  wid  me  left  foot,  an'  thin  I  slept  like  the  dead. 
"Wanst  I  half  roused,  an'  begad  the  noise  in  my  head  was 
tremenjus — roarin'  an'  poundin'  an'  rattlin'  such  as  was 
quite  new  to  me.  'Mother  av  mercy,'  thinks  I,  'phwat  a 
concertina  I  will  have  on  my  shoulders  whin  I  wake !  An' 
wid  that  I  curls  myself  up  to  sleep  before  ut  should  get  hould 
on  me.  Bhoys,  that  noise  was  not  dhrink,  'twas  the  rattle 
av  a  thrain!" 

There  followed  an  impressive  pause. 

''Yes,  he  had  put  me  on  a  thrain — put  me,  palanquin  an' 
all,  an'  six  black  assassins  av  his  own  coohes  that  was  in  his 
nefarious  confidence,  on  the  flat  av  a  ballast-truck,  and  we 
were  rowlin'  and  bowlin'  along  to  Benares.  Glory  be  that  I 
did  not  wake  up  then  an'  introjuce  myself  to  the  coolies. 
As  I  was  sayin',  I  slept  for  the  better  part  av  a  day  an'  a 
night.  But  remimber  you,  that  that  man  Dearsley  had 
packed  me  off  on  one  av  his  material  thrains  to  Benares,  all 
for  to  make  me  overstay  my  leave  an'  get  me  into  the  cells." 

The  explanation  was  an  eminently  rational  one.  Benares 
was  at  least  ten  hours  by  rail  from  the  cantonments,  and 
nothing  in  the  world  could  have  saved  Mulvaney  from  arrest 
as  a  deserter  had  he  appeared  there  in  the  apparel  of  his 
orgies.  Dearsley  had  not  forgotten  to  take  revenge.  Learoyd, 
drawing  back  a  little,  began  to  place  soft  blows  over  selected 
portions  of  Mulvaney 's  body.  His  thoughts  were  away  on 
the  embankment,  and  they  meditated  evil  for  Dearsley. 
Mulvaney  continued :  ' '  Whin  I  was  full  awake,  the  palanquin 
was  set  down  in  a  street,  I  suspicioned,  for  I  could  hear 
people  passin'  and  talkin'.  But  I  knew  well  I  was  far  from 
home.  There  is  a  queer  smell  upon  our  cantonments —  smell 
av  dried  earth  and  brick-kilns  wid  whiffs  av  a  cavalry  stable- 
litter.  This  place  smelt  marigold  flowers  an'  bad  water,  an' 
wanst  somethin'  alive  came  an'  blew  heavy  with  his  muzzle 
at  the  chink  of  the  shutter.  'It's  in  a  village  I  am,'  thinks  I 
to  myself,    'an'    the   parochial   buffalo   is   investigatin'   the 


120  U/orl^s  of  r^adyard  l^iplip^J 

palanquin.'  But  anyways  I  liad  no  desire  to  move.  Only 
lie  still  whin  you're  in  foreign  parts,  an'  the  standin'  luck  av 
the  British  army  will  carry  ye  through.  That  is  an  epigram. 
I  made  ut. 

"Thin  a  lot  av  whisperin'  devils  surrounded  the  palanquin. 
*Take  ut  up,'  says  wan  man.  *But  who'll  pay  us?'  says 
another.  'The  Maharanee's  minister,  av  course,'  sez  the  man. 
*Oho!'  sez  I  to  myself;  'I'm  a  quane  in  me  own  right,  wid  a 
minister  to  pay  me  expenses.  I'll  be  an  emperor  if  I  lie  still 
long  enough.  But  this  is  no  village  I've  struck.'  I  lay 
quiet,  but  I  gummed  me  right  eye  to  a  crack  av  the  shutters, 
an'  I  sa<w  that  the  whole  street  was  crammed  wid  palanquins 
an'  horses  an'  a  sprinklin'  av  naked  priests,  all  yellow  pow- 
der an'  tigers'  tails.  But  I  may  tell  you,  Orth'ris,  an'  you, 
Learoyd,  that  av  all  the  palanquins  ours  was  the  most  im- 
perial an'  magnificent.  !N"ow,  a  palanquin  means  a  native 
lady  all  the  world  over,  except  whin  a  soldier  av  the  quane 
happens  to  be  takin'  a  ride.  'Women  an'  priest!'  sez  I. 
'Your  father's  son  is  in  the  right  pew  this  time,  Terence. 
There  will  be  proceedin's.'  Six  black  devils  in  pink  muslin 
tuk  up  the  palanquin,  an'  oh!  but  the  rowlin'  an'  the  rockin' 
made  me  sick.  Thin  we  got  fair  jammed  among  the  palan- 
quins— not  more  than  fifty  av  them — an'  we  grated  an' 
bumped  like  Queenstown  potato-smacks  in  a  runnin'  tide. 
I  cud  hear  the  women  gigglin'  and  squirmin'  in  their  palan- 
quins, but  mine  was  the  royal  equipage.  They  made  way 
for  ut,  an',  begad,  the  pink  muslin  men  o'  mine  were  howlin', 
'Room  for  the  Maharanee  av  Gokral-Seetarun.'  Do  you 
know  av  the  lady,  sorr?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "She  is  a  very  estimable  old  queen  of  the 
Central  India  States,  and  they  say  she  is  fat.  How  on  earth 
could  she  go  to  Benares  without  all  the  city  knowing  her 
palanquin?" 

"'Twas  the  eternal  foolishness  av  the  naygur  men.  They 
saw  the  palanquin  lying  loneful  an'  forlornsome,  an'  the 
beauty  of  ut,  after  Dearsley's  men  had  dhropped  ut  an'  gone 
away,  an'  they  gave  ut  the  best  name  that  occurred  to  thim. 


/I\ir>e  0\jjT)  people  121 

Quite  right  too.  For  aught  we  know,  the  old  lady  was 
travelin'  incog. — like  me.  I'm  glad  to  hear  she's  fat.  I  was 
no  light-weight  myself,  an'  my  men  were  mortial  anxious  to 
dhrop  me  under  a  great  big  archway  promiscuously  orna- 
mented wid  the  most  improper  carvin's  an'  cuttin's  I  iver 
saw.     Begad!  they  made  me  blush — hke  a  maharanee." 

"The  temple  of  the  Prithi-Devi,"  I  murmured,  remem- 
bering the  monstrous  horrors  of  that  sculptured  archway  at 
Benares. 

"Pretty  Devilskins,  savin'  your  presence,  sorr.  There  was 
nothin'  pretty  about  ut,  except  me!  'Twas  all  half  dhark,  an' 
whin  the  coolies  left  they  shut  a  big  black  gate  beliind  av  us, 
an'  half  a  company  av  fat  yellow  priests  began  puUy-haulin' 
the  palanquins  into  a  dharker  place  yet — a  big  stone  hall  full 
av  pillars  an'  gods  an'  incense  an'  all  manner  av  similar 
thruck.  The  gate  disconcerted  me,  for  I  perceived  I  wud 
have  to  go  forward  to  get  out,  my  retreat  bein'  cut  off.  By 
the  same  token,  a  good  priest  makes  a  bad  palanquin-coolie. 
Begad !  they  nearly  turned  me  inside  out  dragging  the  palan- 
quin to  the  temple.  Now  the  disposishin  av  the  forces  inside 
was  this  way.  The  Maharanee  av  Gokral-Seetarun — that 
was  me — lay  by  the  favor  of  Providence  on  the  far  left  flank 
behind  the  dhark  av  a  pillar  carved  with  elephants'  heads. 
The  remainder  av  the  palanquins  was  in  a  big  half  circle 
facing  into  the  biggest,  fattest,  and  most  amazin'  she-god 
that  iver  I  dreamed  av.  Her  head  ran  up  into  the  black 
above  us,  an'  her  feet  stuck  out  in  the  light  av  a  little  fire  av 
melted  butter  that  a  priest  was  feedin'  out  av  a  butter-dish. 
Thin  a  man  began  to  sing  an'  play  on  somethin',  back  in  the 
dhark,  an'  'twas  a  queer  song.  Ut  made  my  hair  lift  on  the 
back  av  my  neck.  Thin  the  doors  av  all  the  palanquins  slid 
back,  an'  the  women  bundled  out.  I  saw  what  I'll  never  see 
again.  'Twas  more  glorious  than  transformations  at  a  pan- 
tomime, for  they  was  in  pink,  an'  blue,  an'  silver,  an'  red, 
an'  grass-green,  wid  diamonds,  an'  imeralds,  an'  great  red 
rubies.     I  niver  saw  the  like,  an'  I  niver  will  again. ' ' 

"Seeing  that  in  all  probability  you  were  watching  the 
Vol.  3.  6 


122  U/orl^s  of  l^tidyard  t^iplip^ 

wives  and  daughters  of  most  of  the  kings  of  India,  the  chances 
are  that  you  won't,"  I  said,  for  it  was  dawning  upon  me  that 
Mulvaney  had  stumbled  upon  a  big  queen's  praying  at 
Benares. 

"I  niver  will,"  he  said,  mournfully.  "That  sight  doesn't 
come  twict  to  any  man.  It  made  me  ashamed  to  watch.  A 
fat  priest  knocked  at  my  door.  I  didn't  think  he'd  have  the 
insolence  to  disturb  the  Maharanee  av  Gokral-Seetarun,  so  I 
lay  still.  'The  old  cow's  asleep,'  sez  he  to  another.  'Let  her 
be, '  sez  that.  '  'Twill  be  long  before  she  has  a  calf ! '  I  might 
ha'  known  before  he  spoke  that  all  a  woman  prays  for  in 
Injia — an'  for  the  matter  o'  that  in  England  too — is  childher. 
That  made  me  more  sorry  I'd  come,  me  bein',  as  you  well 
know,  a  childless  man. 

"They  prayed,  an'  the  butter-fires  blazed  up  an'  the  in- 
cense turned  everything  blue,  an'  between  that  an'  the  fires 
the  women  looked  as  tho'  they  were  all  ablaze  an'  twinkhn'. 
They  took  hold  of  the  she-god's  knees,  they  cried  out,  an' 
they  threw  themselves  about,  an'  that  world-without-end- 
amen  music  was  dhrivin'  thim  mad.  Mother  av  Hiven !  how 
they  cried,  an'  the  ould  she-god  grinnin'  above  them  all  so 
scornful!  The  dhrink  was  dyin'  out  in  me  fast,  an'  I  was 
thinkin'  harder  than  the  thoughts  wud  go  through  my  head 
— thinkin'  how  to  get  out,  an'  all  manner  of  nonsense  as 
well.  The  women  were  rockin'  in  rows,  their  di'mond  belts 
clickin',  an'  the  tears  runnin'  out  betune  their  hands,  an'  the 
lights  were  goin'  lower  and  dharker.  .  Thin  there  was  a  blaze 
like  lightnin'  from  the  roof,  an'  that  showed  me  the  inside 
av  the  palanquin,  an'  at  the  end  where  my  foot  was  stood  the 
livin'  spit  an'  image  o'  myself  worked  on  the  linin'.  This 
wan  here,  it  was." 

He  hunted  in  the  folds  of  his  pink  cloak,  ran  a  hand  under 
one,  and  thrust  into  the  fire-light  a  foot-long  embroidered 
presentment  of  the  great  god  Krishna  playing  on  a  flute."  The 
heavy  jowl,  the  staring  eye,  and  the  blue-black  mustache  of 
the  god  made  up  a  far-off  resemblance  to  Mulvaney. 

"The  blaze  was  gone  in  a  wink,  but  the  whole  schame 


/I\ipe  OwT)  people  123 

came  to  me  thin.  I  believe  I  was  mad,  too.  I  slid  the  off- 
shutter  open  an'  rowled  out  into  the  dhark  behind  the  ele- 
phant-head pillar,  tucked  up  mj  trousies  to  my  knee,  slipped 
off  my  boots,  and  took  a  general  hould  av  all  the  pink  linin' 
av  the  palanquin.  Glory  be,  ut  ripped  out  hke  a  woman's 
driss  when  you  thread  on  ut  at  a  sargent's  ball,  an'  a  bottle 
came  with  ut.  I  tuk  the  bottle,  an'  the  next  minut  I  was  out 
av  the  dhark  av  the  pillar,  the  pink  hnin'  wrapped  round  me 
most  graceful,  the  music  thunderin'  hke  kettle-drums,  an'  a 
cowl  draft  blowin'  round  my  bare  legs.  By  this  hand  that 
did  ut,  I  was  Krishna  tootlin'  on  the  flute  ^ — the  god  that  the 
rig'mental  chaplain  talks  about.  A  sweet  sight  I  must  ha' 
looked.  I  knew  my  eyes  were  big  and  my  face  was  wax- 
white,  an'  at  the  worst  I  must  ha'  looked  like  a  ghost.  But 
they  took  me  for  the  livin'  god.  The  music  stopped,  and  the 
women  were  dead  dumb,  an'  I  crooked  my  legs  like  a  shep- 
herd on  a  china  basin,  an'  I  did  the  ghost-waggle  with  my 
feet  as  I  had  done  at  the  rig'mental  theater  many  times,  an' 
slid  across  the  temple  in  front  av  the  she-god,  tootlin'  on  the 
beer-bottle." 

**Wot  did  you  toot?"  demanded  Ortheris. 

**Me?  Oh!"  Mulvaney  sprung  up,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word,  and  shding  gravely  in  front  of  us,  a  dilapidated 
deity  in  the  half  light.     ^ 'I  sung: 

**  *Only  say 

You'll  be  Mrs.  Brallaghan. 
Don't  say  nay, 

Charmin'  Juley  Callaghan.' 

I  didn't  know  my  own  voice  when  I  sung.  An'  oh!  'twas 
pitiful  to  see  the  women.  The  darhn's  were  down  on  their 
faces.  Whin  I  passed  the  last  wan  I  could  see  her  poor  little 
fingers  workin'  one  in  another  as  if  she  wanted  to  touch  my 
feet.  So  I  threw  the  tail  of  this  pink  overcoat  over  her  head 
for  the  greater  honor,  an'  slid  into  the  dhark  on  the  other  side 
of  the  temple,  and  fetched  up  in  the  arms  av  a  big  fat  priest. 
All  I  wanted  was  to  get  away  clear.     So  I  tuk  him  by  his 


124  U/orlvS  of  P^udyard  I^iplii^^ 

greasy  throat  an'  shut  the  speech  out  av  him.  *Out!'  sez  L 
'Which  way,  ye  fat  heathen?'  *0h!'  sez  he.  'Man,'  sez  I. 
*  White  man,  soldier  man,  common  soldier  man.  Where  is 
the  back  door?'  'This  way,'  sez  my  fat  friend,  duckin'  be- 
hind a  big  bull-god  an'  divin'  into  a  passage.  Thin  I  remim- 
bered  that  I  must  ha'  made  the  miraculous  reputation  of  that 
temple  for  the  next  fifty  years.  'Not  so  fast,'  I  sez,  an'  I 
held  out  both  my  hands  wid  a  wink.  That  ould  thief  smiled 
like  a  father.  I  took  him  by  the  back  av  the  neck  in  case  he 
should  be  wishful  to  put  a  knife  into  me  unbeknownst,  an'  I 
ran  him  up  an'  down  the  passage  twice  to  collect  his  sensi- 
bilities. 'Be  quiet,'  sez  he,  in  English.  'Now  you  talk 
sense,'  I  sez.  'Fwhat'll  you  give  me  for  the  use  of  that  most 
iligant  palanquin  I  have  no  time  to  take  away?'  'Don't  tell,' 
sez  he.  'Is  ut  like?'  sez  I.  'But  ye  might  give  me  my  rail- 
way fare.  I'm  far  from  my  home,  an'  I've  done  you  a  ser- 
vice. '  Bhoys,  'tis  a  good  thing  to  be  a  priest.  The  ould  man 
niver  throubled  himself  to  draw  from  a  bank.  As  I  will 
prove  to  you  subsequint,  he  philandered  all  round  the  slack 
av  his  clothes  and  began  dribblin'  ten-rupee  notes,  old  gold 
mohurs,  and  rupees  into  my  hand  till  I  could  hould  no  more." 

"You  he!"  said  Ortheris.  "You're  mad  or  sunstrook. 
A  native  don't  give  coin  unless  you  cut  it  out  av  'im.  'Tain't 
nature." 

"Then  my  he  an'  my  sunstroke  is  concealed  under  that 
lump  av  sod  yonder,"  retorted  Mulvaney,  unruffled,  nodding 
across  the  scrub.  "An'  there's  a  dale  more  in  nature  than 
your  squidgy  little  legs  have  iver  taken  you  to,  Orth'ris,  me 
son.  Four  hundred  and  thirty-four  rupees  by  my  reckonin', 
an''  a  big  fat  gold  necklace  that  I  took  from  him  as  a  remim- 
brancer." 

"An'  'e  give  it  to  you  for  love?"  said  Ortheris. 

"We  were  alone  in  that  passage.  Maybe  I  was  a  trifle 
too  pressin',  but  considher  fwhat  I  had  done  for  the  good  av 
the  temple  and  the  iverlastin'  joy  av  those  women.  'Twas 
cheap  at  the  price.  I  would  ha'  taken  more  if  I  could  ha' 
found  it.     I  turned  the  ould  man  upside  down  at  the  last,  but 


fT\iT)e  OwT)  people  125 

he  was  milked  dhry.  Thin  he  opened  a  door  in  another 
passage,  an'  I  found  myself  up  to  my  knees  in  Benares  river- 
water,  an'  bad  smellin'  ut  is.  More  by  token  I  had  come  out 
on  the  river  line  close  to  the  burnin'-ghat  and  contagious  to 
a  cracklin'  corpse.  This  was  in  the  heart  av  the  night,  for  I 
had  been  four  hours  in  the  temple.  There  was  a  crowd  av 
boats  tied  up,  so  I  tuk  wan  an'  wint  across  the  river.  Thin 
I  came  home,  lyin'  up  by  day. " 

"How  on  earth  did  you  manage?"  I  said. 

*'How  did  Sir  Frederick  Roberts  get  from  Cabul  to  Can- 
dahar?  He  marched,  an'  he  niver  told  how  near  he  was  to 
breakin'  down.  That's  why  he  is  phwat  he  is.  An'  now" — 
Mulvaney  yawned  portentously — "now  I  will  go  and  give 
myself  up  for  absince  widout  leave.  It's  eight-an' -twenty 
days  an'  the  rough  end  of  the  colonel's  tongue  in  orderly-room, 
any  way  you  look  at  ut.     But  'tis  cheap  at  the  price." 

"Mulvaney,"  said  I,  softly,  "if  there  happens  to  be  any 
sort  of  excuse  that  the  colonel  can  in  any  way  accept,  I 
have  a  notion  that  you'll  get  nothing  more  than  the  dressing 
down.     The  new  recruits  are  in,  and — " 

"Not  a  word  more,  sorr.  Is  ut  excuses  the  ould  man 
wants?  'Tis  not  my  way,  but  he  shall  have  thim."  And  he 
flapped  his  way  to  cantonments,  singing  lustily : 

"So  they  sent  a  corp'ril  s  file. 
And  they  put  me  in  the  guyard-room. 
For  conduck  unbecomin'  of  a  soldier." 

Therewith  he  surrendered  himself  to  the  joyful  and  almost 
weeping  guard,  and  was  made  much  of  by  his  fellows.  But 
to  the  colonel  he  said  that  he  had  been  smitten  with  sunstroke 
and  had  lain  insensible  on  a  villager's  cot  for  untold  hours, 
and  between  laughter  and  good- will  the  affair  was  smoothed 
over,  so  tha^  he  could  next  day  teach  the  new  recruits  how  to 
"fear  God  honor  the  queen,  shoot  straight,  and  keep  clean.'' 

END   OF   "  MINE   OWN  PEOPLE  " 


THE    COURTING    OF    DINAH    SHADD 


All  day  I  had  followed  at  the  heels  of  a  pursuing  army, 
engaged  on  one  of  the  finest  battles  that  ever  camp  of  exer- 
cise beheld.  Thirty  thousand  troops  had  by  the  wisdom  of 
the  government  of  India  been  turned  loose  over  a  few  thou- 
sand square  miles  of  country  to  practice  in  peace  what  they 
would  never  attempt  in  war.  The  Army  of  the  South  had 
finally  pierced  the  center  of  the  Army  of  the  North,  and  was 
pouring  through  the  gap,  hot- foot,  to  capture  a  city  of  strategic 
importance.  Its  front  extended  fanwise,  the  sticks  being  rep- 
resented by  regiments  strung  out  along  the  line  of  route  back- 
ward to  the  divisional  transport  columns,  and  all  the  lumber 
that  trails  behind  an  army  on  the  move.  On  its  right  the 
broken  left  of  the  Army  of  the  North  was  flying  in  mass", 
chased  by  the  Southern  horse  and  hammered  by  the  South- 
ern guns,  till  these  had  been  pushed  far  beyond  the  limits  of 
their  last  support.  Then  the  flying  Army  of  the  North  sat 
down  to  rest,  while  the  commandant  of  the  pursuing  force 
telegraphed  that  he  held  it  in  check  and  observation. 

Unluckily  he  did  not  observe  that  three  miles  to  his  right 
flank  a  flying  column  of  Northern  horse,  with  a  detachment 
of  Goorkhas  and  British  troops,  had  been  pushed  round,  as 
fast  as  the  fading  Hght  allowed,  to  cut  across  the  entire  rear 
of  the  Southern  Army,  to  break,  as  it  were,  all  the  ribs  of 
the  fan  where  they  converged,  by  striking  at  the  transport 
reserve,  ammunition,  and  artillery  supplies.  Their  instruc- 
tions were  to  go  in,  avoiding  the  few  scouts  who  might  not 
have  been  drawn  off  by  the  pursuit,  and  create  sufficient  ex- 
citement to  impress  the  Southern  Army  with  the  wisdom  of 
(126) 


T^e  QcurtiQ^  of  Dipal?  B\)zdd  127 

guarding  their  own  flank  and  rear  before  they  captured  cities. 
It  was  a  pretty  maneuver,  neatly  carried  out. 

Speaking  for  the  second  division  of  the  Southern  Army, 
our  first  intimation  of  it  was  at  twilight,  when  the  artillery 
were  laboring  in  deep  sand,  most  of  the  escort  were  trying 
to  help  them  out,  and  the  main  body  of  the  infantry  had 
gone  on.  A  Noah's  ark  of  elephants,  camels,  and  the  mixed 
menagerie  of  an  Indian  transport  train  bubbled  and  squealed 
behind  the  guns,  when  there  rose  up  from  nowhere  in  par 
ticular  British  infantry  to  the  extent  of  three  companies,  who 
sprung  to  the  heads  of  the  gun-horses,  and  brought  all  to  a 
standstill  amid  oaths  and  cheers. 

"How's  that,  umpire?"  said  the  major  commanding  the 
attack,  and  with  one  voice  the  drivers  and  limber  gunners 
answered,  "Hout!"   while  the  colonel  of  artillery  sputtered. 

"All  your  scouts  are  charging  our  main  body,"  said  the 
major.  "Your  flanks  are  unprotected  for  two  miles.  I 
think  we've  broken  the  back  of  this  division.  And  listen ! 
there  go  the  Goorkhas!" 

A  weak  fire  broke  from  the  rear-guard  more  than  a  mile 
away,  and  was  answered  by  cheerful  bowlings.  The  Goor- 
khas, who  should  have  swung  clear  of  the  second  division, 
had  stepped  on  its  tail  in  the  dark,  but,  drawing  off,  hastened 
to  reach  the  next  Hne,  which  lay  almost  parallel  to  us,  five 
or  six  miles  away. 

Our  column  swayed  and  surged  irresolutely — three  bat- 
teries, the  divisional  ammunition  reserve,  the  baggage,  and 
a  section  of  hospital  and  bearer  corps.  The  commandant 
ruefully  promised  to  report  himself  "cut  up"  to  the  nearest 
umpire,  and  commending  his  cavalry  and  all  other  cavalry 
to  the  care  of  Eblis,  toiled  on  to  resume  touch  with  the  rest 
of  the  division. 

"We'll  bivouac  here  to-night,"  said  the  major.  "I  have 
a  notion  that  the  Goorkhas  will  get  caught.  They  may 
want  us  to  reform  on.  Stand  easy  till  the  transport  gets 
away. ' ' 

A  hand  caught  my  beast's  bridle  and  led  him  out  of  the 


128  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

choking  dust ;  a  larger  hand  deftly  canted  me  out  of  the  sad- 
dle, and  two  of  the  hugest  hands  in  the  world  received  me 
shding.  Pleasant  is  the  lot  of  the  special  correspondent  who 
falls  into  such  hands  as  those  of  Privates  Mulvaney,  Ortheris, 
and  Learoyd. 

"An'  that's  all  right,"  said  the  Irishman,  calmly.  '*We 
thought  we'd  find  you  somewheres  here  by.  Is  there  any- 
thing of  yours  in  the  transport?     Orth'ris  '11  fetch  ut  out." 

Ortheris  did  "fetch  ut  out"  from  under  the  trunk  of  an 
elephant,  in  the  shape  of  a  servant  and  an  animal,  both  laden 
with  medical  comforts.     The  little  man's  eyes  sparkled. 

"If  the  brutil  an'  licentious  soldiery  av  these  parts  gets 
sight  av  the  thruck, ' '  said  Mulvaney,  making  practiced  in- 
vestigation, "they'll  loot  ev'rything.  They're  bein'  fed  on 
iron-filin's  an'  dog  biscuit  these  days,  but  glory's  no  com- 
pensation for  a  bellyache.  Praise  be,  we're  here  to  protect 
you,  sorr.  Beer,  sausage,  bread  (soft,  an'  that's  a  cur'osity), 
soup  in  a  tin,  whisky  by  the  smell  av  ut,  an'  fowls.  Mother 
av  Moses,  but  ye  take  the  field  like  a  confectioner!  'Tis 
scand'lus." 

"  'Ere's  a  orficer,"  said  Ortheris,  significantly.  "When 
the  sergent's  done  lushin',  the  privit  may  clean  the  pot." 

I  bundled  several  things  into  Mulvaney 's  haversack  be- 
fore the  major's  hand  fell  on  my  shoulder,  and  he  said,  ten- 
derly :  "Requisitioned  for  the  queen's  service.  Wolseley  was 
quite  wrong  about  special  correspondents.  They  are  the  best 
friends  of  the  soldier.  Come  an'  take  pot-luck  with  us  to- 
night." 

And  so  it  happened  amid  laughter  and  shoutings  that  my 
well-considered  commissariat  melted  away  to  reappear  on  the 
mess-table,  which  was  a  water-proof  sheet  spread  on  the 
ground.  The  flying  column  had  taken  three  days'  rations 
with  it,  and  there  be  few  things  nastier  than  government 
rations — especially  when  government  is  experimenting  with 
German  toys.  Erbswurst,  tinned  beef,  of  surpassing  tinni- 
ness,  compressed  vegetables,  and  meat  biscuits  may  be  nour- 
ishing, but  what  Thomas  Atkins  wants  is  bulk  in  his  inside. 


Jl^e  <?ourtip($  of  Dipal?  Sl^add  129 

The  major,  assisted  by  his  brother  officers,  purchased  goats 
for  the  camp,  and  so  made  the  experiment  of  no  effect.  Long 
before  the  fatigue-party  sent  to  collect  brushwood  had  re- 
turned, the  men  were  settled  down  by  their  valises,  kettles 
and  pots  had  appeared  from  the  surrounding  country,  and 
were  dangling  over  fires  as  the  kid  and  the  compressed  vege- 
tables bubbled  together;  there  rose  a  cheerful  clinking  of 
mess  tins,  outrageous  demands  for  a  ''little  more  stuffin' 
with  that  there  liver  wing, ' '  and  gust  on  gust  of  chaff  as 
pointed  as  a  bayonet  and  as  delicate  as  a  gun-butt. 

* ' The  boys  are  in  a  good  temper, ' '  said  the  major.  ' ' They'll 
be  singing  presently.  Well,  a  night  like  this  is  enough  to 
keep  them  happy. " 

Over  our  heads  burned  the  wonderful  Indian  stars,  which 
are  not  all  pricked  in  on  one  plane,  but  preserving  an  orderly 
perspective,  draw  the  eye  through  the  velvet  darkness  of  the 
void  up  to  the  barred  doors  of  heaven  itself.  The  earth  was 
a  gray  shadow  more  unreal  than  the  sky.  We  could  hear 
her  breathing  lightly  in  the  pauses  between  the  howling  of 
the  jackals,  the  movement  of  the  wind  in  the  tamarisks,  and 
the  fitful  mutter  of  musketry  fire  leagues  away  to  the  left. 
A  native  woman  in  some  unseen  hut  began  to  sing,  the  mail 
train  thundered  past  on  its  way  to  Delhi,  and  a  roosting  crov/ 
cawed  drowsily.  Then  there  was  a  belt-loosening  silence 
about  the  fires,  and  the  even  breathing  of  the  crowded  earth 
took  up  the  story. 

The  men,  full  fed,  turned  to  tobacco  and  song — their 
officers  with  them.  Happy  is  the  subaltern  who  can  win  the 
approval  of  the  musical  critics  in  his  regiment,  and  is  hon- 
ored among  the  more  intricate  step  dancers.  By  him,  as  by 
him  who  plays  cricket  craftily,  will  Thomas  Atkins  stand  in 
time  of  need  when  he  will  let  a  better  officer  go  on  alone. 
The  ruined  tombs  of  forgotten  Mussulman  saints  heard  the 
ballad  of  "Agra  Town,"  "The  Buffalo  Battery,"  "March- 
ing  to  Cabul,"  "The  long,  long  Indian  Day,"  "The  Place 
Where  the  Punkah  Coolie  Died,"  and  that  crashing  chorus 
which  announces 


130  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

"Youth's  daring  spirit,  manliood's  fire^ 
Firm  hand,  and  eagle  eye 
Must  he  acquire  who  would  aspire 
To  see  the  gray  boar  die." 

To-day,  of  all  those  jovial  thieves  who  appropriated  my 
commissariat,  and  lay  and  laughed  round  that  water-proof  :, 
sheet,  not  one  remains.  They  went  to  camps  that  were  not 
of  exercise,  and  battles  without  imapires.  Burma,  the  Sou- 
dan, and  the  frontier  fever  and  fight  took  them  in  their 
time. 

I  drifted  across  to  the  men's  fires  in  search  of  Mulvaney, 
whom  I  found  greasing  his  feet  by  the  blaze.  There  is  noth- 
ing particularly  lovely  in  the  sight  of  a  private  thus  engaged 
after  a  long  day's  march,  but  when  you  reflect  on  the  exact 
proportion  of  the  ''might,  majesty,  dominion,  and  power"  of 
the  British  Empire  that  stands  on  those  feet,  you  take  an 
interest  in  the  proceedings. 

''There's  a  blister — bad  luck  to  ut! — on  the  heel,"  said 
Mulvaney.     "I  can't  touch  it.     Prick  ut  out,  Httle  man." 

Ortheris  produced  his  housewife,  eased  the  trouble  with 
a  needle,  stabbed  Mulvaney  in  the  calf  with  the  same  weapon, 
and  was  incontinently  kicked  into  the  fire. 

"I've  bruk  the  best  av  my  toes  over  you,  ye  grinnin'  child 
av  disruption!"  said  Mulvaney,  sitting  cross-legged  and 
nursing  his  feet;  then,  seeing  me;  "Oh,  ut's  you,  sorr!  Be 
welkim,  an'  take  that  maraudin'  scut's  place.  Jock,  hould 
him  down  on  the  cindhers  for  a  bit. ' ' 

But  Ortheris  escaped  and  went  elsewhere  as  I  took  pos- 
session of  the  hollow  he  had  scraped  for  himself  and  lined 
with  his  greatcoat.  Learoyd,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire, 
grinned  affably,  and  in  a  minute  fell  fast  asleep. 

"There's  the  height  av  politeness  for  you,"  said  Mul-  j 
vaney,  lighting  his  pipe  with  a  flaming  branch.  "But  Jock's 
eaten  half  a  box  av  your  sardines  at  wan  gulp,  an'  I  think 
the  tin  too.  What's  the  best  wid  you,  sorr;  an'  how  did  you 
happen  to  be  on  the  losin'  side  this  day  when  we  captured 
you?" 


Jl^e  <?ourtii7($  of  Dii^al?  Sl^add  131 

**The  Army  of  the  South  is  winning  all  along  the  line," 
I  said. 

"Thin  that  line's  the  hangman's  rope,  savin'  your  pres- 
ence. You'll  learn  to-morrow  how  we  retreated  to  dhraw 
thim  on  before  we  made  thim  trouble,  an'  that's  what  a  wo- 
man does.  By  the  same  token,  we'll  be  attacked  before  the 
dawnin',  an'  ut  would  be  betther  not  to  slip  your  boots. 
How  do  I  know  that?  By  the  light  av  pure  reason.  Here 
are  three  companies  av  us  ever  so  far  inside  av  the  enemy's 
flank,  an'  a  crowd  av  roarin',  t'arin',  an'  squealin'  cavalry 
gone  on  just  to  turn  out  the  whole  nest  av  thim.  Av  course 
the  enemy  will  pursue  by  brigades  like  as  not,  an'  then  we'll 
have  to  run  for  ut.  Mark  my  words.  I  am  av  the  opinion 
av  Polonius,  whin  he  said:  'Don't  fight  wid  ivry  scut  for  the 
pure  joy  av  fightin' ;  but  if  you  do,  knock  the  nose  av  him 
first  an'  frequint!'  We  ought  to  ha'  gone  on  an'  helped  the 
Goorkhas." 

"But  what  do  you  know  about  Polonius?"  I  demanded. 
This  was  a  new  side  of  Mulvaney's  character. 

"All  that  Shakespeare  ever  wrote,  an'  a  dale  more  that 
the  gallery  shouted,"  said  the  man  of  war,  carefully  lacing 
his  boots.  "Did  I  not  tell  you  av  Silver's  Theater  in  Dublin 
whin  I  was  younger  than  I  am  now,  an'  a  patron  av  the 
drama?  Ould  Silver  wud  never  pay  actor,  man  or  woman, 
their  just  dues,  an'  by  consequence  his  comp'nies  was  col- 
lapsible at  the  last  minut.  Then  the  bhoys  would  clamor  to 
take  a  part,  an'  oft  as  not  ould  Silver  made  them  pay  for  the 
fun.  Faith,  I've  seen  Hamlut  played  wid  a  new  black  eye, 
an'  the  queen  as  full  as  a  cornucopia.  I  remember  wanst 
Hogin,  that  'listed  in  the  Black  Tyrone  an'  was  shot  in 
South  Africa,  he  sejuced  ould  Silver  into  givin'  him  Ham- 
lut's  part  instid  av  me,  that  had  a  fine  fancy  for  rhetoric  in 
those  days.  Av  course  I  wint  into  the  gallery  an'  began  to 
fill  the  pit  wid  other  people's  hats,  an'  I  passed  the  time  av 
day  to  Hogin  walkin'  through  Denmark  like  a  hamstrung 
mule  wid  a  pall  on  his  back.  'Hamlut,'  sez  I,  'there's  a 
hole  in  your  heel.     Pull  up  your  shtockin's,  Hamlut,'  sez  I. 


132  U/orKs  of  I^odyard  K^plip<$ 

'Hamlut,  Hamlut,  for  the  love  av  decincy,  dhrop  that  skull, 
an'  pull  up  your  shtockin's,'  The  whole  house  began  to  teU 
hun  that.  He  stopped  his  soliloquishms  mid  between.  'My 
shtockin's  may  be  comin'  down,  or  they  may  not,'  sez  he, 
sorewin'  his  eye  into  the  gallery,  for  well  he  knew  who  I 
was;  'but  afther  the  performince  is  over,  me  an'  the  Ghost'll 
trample  the  guts  out  av  you,  Terence,  wid  your  ass's  bray.' 
An'  that's  how  I  come  to  know  about  Hamlut.  Eyah! 
Those  days,  those  days!  Did  you  iver  have  onendin'  devil- 
mint,  an'  nothin'  to  pay  for  it  in  your  Hfe,  sorr?" 

"Never  without  having  to  pay,"  I  said. 

"That's  thrue.  'Tis  mane,  whin  you  considher  on  ut; 
but  ut's  the  same  wid  horse  or  fut.  A  headache  if  you 
dhrink,  an'  a  bellyache  if  you  eat  too  much,  an'  a  heartache 
to  kape  all  down.  Faith,  the  beast  only  gets  the  colic,  an' 
he's  the  lucky  man." 

He  dropped  his  head  and  stared  into  the  fire,  fingering 
his  mustache  the  while.  From  the  far  side  of  the  bivouac 
the  voice  of  Corbet-Nolan,  senior  subaltern  of  B  Company, 
uplifted  itself  in  an  ancient  and  much-appreciated  song  of 
sentiment,  the  men  moaning  melodiously  behind  him : 

"The  north  wind  blew  coldly,  she  dropped  from 
that  hour, 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  sweet  httle  Kathleen, 
Kathleen,  my  Kathleen,  Kathleen  O'Moorei" 

with  forty-five  o's  in  the  last  word.  Even  at  that  distance 
you  might  have  cut  the  soft  South  Irish  accent  with  a  shovel. 

"For  all  we  take  we  must  pay;  but  the  price  is  cruel 
high,"  murmured  Mulvaney  when  the  chorus  had  ceased. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  said  gently,  for  I  knew  that  he 
was  a  man  of  an  inextinguishable  sorrow. 

"Hear  now,"  said  he.  "Ye  know  what  I  am  now.  I 
know  what  I  mint  to  be  at  the  beginnin'  av  my  service.  I've 
tould  you  time  an'  again,  an'  what  I  have  not,  Dinah  Shadd 
has.  An'  what  am  I?  Oh,  Mary  Mother  av  Hiven!  an  ould 
dhrunken,  untrustable  baste  av  a  privit  that  has  seen  the 
regiment  change  out  from  colonel  to  drummer-boy,  not  wanst 


Xl?e  ^ourtip<$  of  Dipal?  Sl^add  133 

or  twict,  but  scores  av  times'.  Ay,  scores!  An'  me  not  so 
near  gettin'  promotion  as  in  the  furst.  An'  me  livin'  on  an' 
kapin'  clear  o'  clink  not  by  my  own  good  conduck,  but  the 
kindness  av  some  orf'cer-bhoy  young  enough  to  be  son  to 
me !  Do  I  not  know  ut?  Can  I  not  tell  whin  I'm  passed 
over  at  p'rade,  tho'  I'm  rockin'  full  av  liquor  an'  ready  to 
fall  all  in  wan  piece,  such  as  even  a  suckin'  child  might  see, 
bekase,  'Oh,  'tis  only  ould  Mulvaney!'  An'  whin  I'm  let 
off  in  the  ord'ly-room,  through  some  thrick  av  the  tongue 
an'  a  ready  answer  an'  the  ould  man's  mercy,  is  ut  smilin'  I 
feel  whin  I  fall  away  an'  go  back  to  Dinah  Shadd,  thryin'  to 
carry  ut  all  off  as  a  joke?  Not  I.  'Tis  hell  to  me — dumb 
hell  through  ut  all;  an'  next  time  whin  the  fit  comes  I  will 
be  as  bad  again.  Good  cause  the  reg'ment  has  to  know  me 
for  the  best  soldier  in  ut.  Better  cause  have  I  to  know  me- 
silf  for  the  worst  man.  I'm  only  fit  to  tache  the  new  drafts 
what  I'U  never  learn  myself;  an'  I  am  sure  as  tho'  I  heard 
ut,  that  the  minut  wan  av  these  pink-eyed  recruities  gets 
away  from  my  'Mind  ye,  now,'  an'  'Listen  to  this,  Jim, 
bhoy , '  sure  I  am  that  the  sergint  houlds  me  up  to  him  for  a 
warnin'.  So  I  tache,  as  they  say  at  musketry  instruction, 
by  direct  an'  ricochet  fire.  Lord  be  good  to  me !  for  I  have 
stud  some  trouble." 

"Lie  down  and  go  to  sleep,"  said  I,  not  being  able  to 
comfort  or  advise.  "You're  the  best  man  in  the  regiment, 
and,  next  to  Ortheris,  the  biggest  fool.  Lie  down,  and  wait 
till  we're  attacked.  "What  force  will  they  turn  out?  Guns, 
think  you?" 

"Thry  that  wid  your  lorrds  an'  ladies,  twistin'  an'  tumin' 
the  talk,  tho'  you  mint  ut  well.  Ye  cud  say  nothin'  to  help 
me ;  an'  yet  ye  never  knew  what  cause  I  had  to  be  what  I 
am." 

"Begin  at  the  beginning  and  go  on  to  the  end,"  I  said, 
royally.  "But  rake  up  the  fire  a  bit  first."  I  passed  Orth- 
eris' bayonet  for  a  poker. 

"That  shows  how  little  you  know  what  to  do,"  said  Mul- 
vaney, putting  it  aside.     "Fire  takes  all  the  heart  out  av  the 


134  U/orKs  of  r^udyard  t^iplip^ 

steel,  an'  the  next  time,  maybe,  that  our  Httle  man  is  fightin' 
for  his  life  his  bradav/1  '11  break,  an'  so  you'll  'ave  killed 
him,  m'anin'  no  more  than  to  kape  yourself  warm.  'Tis  a 
recruity's  thrick  that.     Pass  the  cPanin'-rod,  sorr." 

I  snuggled  down,  abashed,  and  after  an  interval  the  low, 

even  voice  ^f  Mulvaney  began. 


II 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  Dinah  Shadd  came  to  be  wife 
av  mine?" 

I  dissembled  a  burning  anxiety  that  I  had  felt  for  some 
months — ever  since  Dinah  Shadd,  the  strong,  the  patient, 
and  the  infinitely  tender,  had,  of  her  own  good  love  and  free 
will,  washed  a  shirt  for  me,  moving  in  a  barren  land  where 
washing  was  not. 

"I  can't  remember,"  I  said,  casually.  "Was  it  before 
or  after  you  made  love  to  Annie  Bragin,  and  got  no  satis- 
faction?" 

The  story  of  Annie  Bragin  is  written  in  another  place. 
It  is  one  of  the  many  episodes  in  Mulvaney 's  checkered 
career. 

' '  Before — before — long  before  was  that  business  av  Annie 
Bragin  an'  the  corp'ril's  ghost.  Never  woman  was  the 
worse  for  me  whin  I  had  married  Dinah.  There's  a  time 
for  all  things,  an'  I  know  how  to  kape  all  things  in  place — 
barrin'  the  dhrink,  that  kapes  me  in  my  place,  wid  no  hope 
av  comin'  to  be  aught  else." 

"Begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  insisted.  "Mrs.  Mulvaney 
told  me  that  you  married  her  when  you  were  quartered  in 
Krab  Bokhar  barracks." 

"An*  the  same  is  a  cess-pit,"  said  Mulvaney,  piously. 
"She  spoke  thrue,  did  Dinah.  'Twas  this  way.  Talkin'  av 
that,  have  ye  iver  fallen  in  love,  sorr?" 

I  preserved  the  silence  of  the  damned.  Mulvaney  con- 
tinued : 


Tl?e  <?ourtii)<J  of  Dii>al?  Sl?add  135 

*'Thiii  I  will  assume  that  ye  have  not.  I  did.  In  the 
days  av  my  youth,  as  I  have  more  than  wanst  told  you,  I 
was  a  man  that  filled  the  eye  an'  deUghted  the  sowl  av 
women.  Mver  man  was  hated  as  I  have  been.  Mver  man 
v/as  loved  as  I— no,  not  within  half  a  day's  march  av  ut. 
For  the  first  five  years  av  my  service,  whin  I  was  what  I 
wad  give  my  sowl  to  be  now,  I  tuk  whatever  was  widin  my 
reach,  an'  digested  ut,  an'  that's  more  than  most  men  can 
say.  Dhrink  I  tuk,  an'  ut  did  me  no  harm.  By  the  hoUov/ 
av  hiven,  I  could  play  wid  four  women  at  wanst,  an'  kape 
thim  from  findin'  out  anything  about  the  other  three,  and 
smile  hke  a  full-blown  marigold  through  ut  all.  Dick  Coul- 
han,  of  the  battery  we'll  have  down  on  us  to-night,  could 
dhrive  his  team  no  better  than  I  mine ;  an'  I  hild  the  worser 
cattle.  An'  so  I  lived  an'  so  I  was  happy,  till  afther  that 
business  wid  Annie  Bragin — she  that  turned  me  off  as  cool 
as  a  meat-safe,  an'  taught  me  where  I  stud  in  the  mind  av 
an  honest  woman.     'Twas  no  sweet  dose  to  take. 

'*  Afther  that  I  sickened  a  while  an'  tuk  thought  to  my 
reg'mental  work,  conceiting  mesilf  I  wud  study  an'  be  a  sar- 
gint,  an'  a  major-gineral  twinty  minutes  afther  that.  But 
on  top  o'  my  ambitiousness  there  was  an  empty  place  in  my 
sowl,  an'  me  own  opinion  av  mesilf  cud  not  fill  ut.  Sez  I  to 
mesilf:  *  Terence,  you're  a  great  man  an'  the  best  set  up  in 
the  reg'ment.  Go  on  an'  get  promotion. '  Sez  mesilf  to  me, 
*  What  for?'  Sez  I  to  mesilf,  'For  the  glory  av  ut.'  Sez  me- 
silf to  me,  '  Will  that  fill  these  two  strong  arrums  av  yours, 
Terence?'  *Go  to  the  devil,'  sez  I  to  mesilf.  'Go  to  the 
married  lines,'  sez  mesilf  to  me.  '  'Tis  the  same  thing,'  sez 
I  to  mesilf.  *Av  you're  the  same  man,  ut  is,'  said  mesilf  to 
me.  An'  wid  that  I  considhered  on  ut  a  long  while.  Did 
you  iver  feel  that  way,  sorr?" 

I  snored  gently,  knowing  that  if  Mulvaney  were  uninter- 
rupted he  would  go  on.  The  clamor  from  the  bivouac  fires 
beat  up  to  the  stars  as  the  rival  singers  of  the  companies 
were  pitted  against  each  other. 

"So  I  felt  that  way,  an'  a  bad  time  ut  was.     Wanst,  be- 


136  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

in'  a  fool,  I  went  into  the  married  lines,  more  for  the  sake 
av  speakin'  to  our  ould  color-sergint  Shadd  than  for  any 
thruck  wid  wimmen-folk.  I  was  a  corp'ril  then — rejuced 
afther wards;  but  a  corp'ril  then.  I've  got  a  phot ogr aft  av 
mesilf  to  prove  ut.  'You'll  take  a  cup  av  tay  wid  us?'  sez 
he.  'I  will  that,'  I  sez;  'tho'  tay  is  not  my  divarsion.' 
*  'Twud  be  better  for  you  if  ut  were,'  sez  ould  Mother  Shadd. 
An'  she  had  ought  to  know,  for  Shadd,  in  the  ind  av  his 
service,  dhrank  bung-full  each  night. 

* '  Wid  that  I  tuk  off  my  gloves — there  was  pipe-clay  in 
thim  so  that  they  stud  alone — an'  pulled  up  my  chair,  lookin' 
round  at  the  china  ornamints  an'  bits  av  things  in  the  Shadds' 
quarters.  They  were  things  that  belonged  to  a  woman,  an' 
no  camp  kit,  here  to-day  an'  dishipated  next.  'You're  com- 
fortable in  this  place,  sergint,'  sez  I.  '  'Tis  the  wife  that 
did  ut,  boy,'  sez  he,  pointin'  the  stem  av  his  pipe  to  ould 
Mother  Shadd,  an'  she  smacked  the  top  av  his  bald  head 
upon  the  compliment.  'That  manes  you  want  money,'  sez 
she. 

"An'  thin — an'  thin  whin  the  kettle  was  to  be  filled, 
Dinah  came  in — my  Dinah — her  sleeves  rowled  up  to  the 
elbow,  an'  her  hair  in  a  gowlden  glorj^  over  her  forehead, 
the  big  blue  eyes  beneath  twinklin'  like  stars  on  a  frosty 
night,  an'  the  tread  of  her  two  feet  lighter  than  waste  paper 
from  the  colonel's  basket  in  ord'ly-room  when  ut's  emptied. 
Bein'  but  a  shlip  av  a  girl,  she  went  pink  at  seein'  me,  an' 
I  twisted  me  mustache  an'  looked  at  a  picture  forninst  the 
wall.  Never  show  a  woman  that  ye  care  the  snap  av  a 
finger  for  her,  an',  begad,  she'll  come  bleatin'  to  your  boot 
heels." 

"I  suppose  that's  why  you  followed  Annie  Br  agin  till 
everybody  in  the  married  quarters  laughed  at  you, ' '  said  I, 
remembering  that  unhallowed  wooing,  and  casting  off  the 
disguise  of  drowsiness. 

"I'm  layin'  down  the  gineral  theory  av  the  attack,"  said 
Mulvaney,  driving  his  foot  into  the  dying  fire.  "If  you  read 
the  'Soldier's  Pocket-Book, '  which  never  any  soldier  reads. 


J\)e  <?oartir>($  of  Dipal;)  SJ^add  137 

you'll  see  that  there  are  exceptions.  When  Dinah  was  out 
av  the  door  (an'  'twas  as  tho'  the  sunlight  had  gone  too), 
*  Mother  av  Hiven,  sergint!'  sez  I,  'but  is  that  your  daugh- 
ter?' 'I've  believed  that  way  these  eighteen  years,'  sez  ould 
Shadd,  his  eyes  twinklin'.  'But  Mrs.  Shadd  has  her  own 
opinion,  hke  ivry  other  woman.'  '  'Tis  wid  yours  this  time, 
for  a  mericle, '  sez  Mother  Shadd.  '  Then  why,  in  the  name 
av  fortune,  did  I  never  see  her  before?'  sez  I.  'Bekaze 
you've  been  thraipsin'  round  wid  the  married  women  these 
three  years  past.  She  was  a  bit  av  a  child  till  last  year,  an' 
she  shot  up  wid  the  spring,'  sez  ould  Mother  Shadd.  'I'll 
thraipse  no  more, '  sez  I.  'D'you  mane  that?'  sez  ould  Mother 
Shadd,  lookin'  at  me  sideways,  like  a  hen  looks  at  a  hawk 
whin  the  chickens  are  runnin'  free.  'Try  me,  an'  tell,'  sez 
I.  Wid  that  I  pulled  on  my  gloves,  dhrank  off  the  tea,  an' 
wint  out  av  the  house  as  stiff  as  at  gineral  p'rade,  for  weU  I 
knew  that  Dinah  Shadd' s  eyes  were  in  the  small  av  my  back 
out  av  the  scullery  window.  Faith,  that  wa,s  the  only  time 
I  moui-ned  I  was  not  a  cav'lryman,  for  the  sake  av  the  spurs 
to  jingle. 

"I  wint  out  to  think,  an'  I  did  a  powerful  lot  av  thinkin', 
but  ut  aU  came  round  to  that  shlip  av  a  girl  in  the  dotted 
blue  dhress,  wid  the  blue  eyes  an'  the  sparkil  in  them.  Thin 
I  kept  off  canteen,  an'  I  kept  to  the  married  quarthers  or 
near  by  on  the  chanst  av  meetin'  Dinah.  Did  I  meet  her? 
Oh,  my  time  past,  did  I  not,  wid  a  lump  in  my  throat  as  big 
as  my  valise,  an'  my  heart  goin'  like  a  farrier's  forge  on  a 
Saturday  mornin' !  'Twas  'Good-day  to  ye.  Miss  Dinah,' 
an'  'Good-day  t'you,  corp'ril,'  for  a  week  or  two,  an'  divil  a 
bit  further  could  I  get,  bekase  av  the  respict  I  had  to  that 
girl  that  I  cud  ha'  broken  betune  finger  an'  thumb." 

Here  T  giggled  as  I  recalled  the  gigantic  figure  of  Dinah 
Shadd  when  she  handed  me  my  shirt. 

"Ye  may  laugh,"  grunted  Mulvaney.  "But  I'm  speak- 
in'  the  trut',  an'  'tis  you  that  are  in  fault.  Dinah  was  a  girl 
that  wud  ha'  taken  the  imperiousness  out  av  the  Duchess  av 
Clonmel  in  those  days.     Flower  hand,  foot  av  shod  air,  an' 


138  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  i^iplip^ 

the  eyes  av  the  mornin'  she  had.  That  is  my  wife  to-day— 
ould  Dinah,  an'  never  aught  else  than  Dinah  Shadd  to  me. 

"  'Twas  after  three  weeks  standin'  off  an'  on,  an'  niver 
makin'  headway  excipt  through  the  eyes,  that  a  httle  drum- 
mer-boy grinned  in  me  face  whin  I  had  admonished  him  wid 
the  buckle  av  my  belt  for  riotin'  all  over  the  place.  'An'  I'm 
not  the  only  wan  that  doesn't  kape  to  barricks,'  sez  he.  I 
tuk  him  by  the  scruff  av  his  neck — ray  heart  was  hung  on  a 
hair  trigger  those  days,  you  will  understand — an'  'Out  wid 
ut,'  sez  I,  'or  I'll  lave  no  bone  av  you  unbruk.'  'Speak  to 
Dempsey,'  sez  he,  howlin'.  'Dempsey  which,'  sez  I,  'ye 
unwashed  limb  av  Satan?'  'Of  the  Bobtailed  Dhragoons,' 
sez  he.  'He's  seen  her  home  from  her  aunt's  house  in  the 
civil  lines  four  times  this  fortnight.'  'Child,'  sez  I,  dhrop- 
pin'  him,  'your  tongue's  stronger  than  your  body.  Go  to 
your  quarters.     I'm  sorry  I  dhressed  you  down.' 

"At  that  I  wint  four  ways  to  wanst  huntin'  Dempsey.  I 
was  mad  to  think  that  wid  all  my  airs  among  women  I  shud 
ha'  been  ch'ated  by  a  basin-faced  fool  av  a  cav'lry-man  not 
fit  to  trust  on  a  mule  thrunk.  Presintly  I  found  him  in  our 
lines — the  Bobtails  was  quartered  next  us — an'  a  tallowy, 
top-heavy  son  av  a  she -mule  he  was,  wid  his  big  brass 
spurs  an'  his  plastrons  on  his  epigastons  an'  all.  But  he 
niver  flinched  a  hair. 

"  'A  word  wid  you,  Dempsey,'  sez  I.  'You've  walked 
wid  Dinah  Shadd  four  times  this  fortnight  gone. ' 

"  'What's  that  to  you?'  sez  he.  'I'll  walk  forty  times 
more,  an'  forty  on  top  av  that,  ye  shovel-futted,  clod-breakin' 
infantry  lance-corp'riL' 

"Before  I  cud  gyard,  he  had  his  gloved  fist  home  on  me 
cheek,  an'  down  I  went  full  sprawl.  'Will  that  content  you?' 
sez  he,  blowin'  on  his  knuckles  for  all  the  world  like  a  Scots 
Grays  orf'cer.  'Content?'  sez  I.  'For  your  own  sake,  man, 
take  off  your  spurs,  peel  your  jackut,  and  onglove.  'Tis  the 
beginnin'  av  the  overture.     Stand  up!' 

"He  stud  all  he  knew,  but  he  niver  peeled  his  jackut,  an' 
his  shoulders  had  no  fair  play.     I  was  fightin'   for  Dinah 


Xl?e  <^ourtiT)(^  of  Dipal?  SI?add  139 

Shadd  an'  that  cut  on  me  cheek.  What  hope  had  he  forninst 
me?  *  Stand  up!'  sez  I,  time  an'  again,  when  he  was  begin- 
nin'  to  quarter  the  ground  an'  gyard  high  an'  go  large. 
*This  isn't  ridin'-school,'  sez  I.  'Oh,  man,  stand  up,  an'  let 
me  get  at  jeV  But  whin  I  saw  he  wud  be  runnin'  about,  I 
grup  his  shtock  in  me  left  an'  his  waist-belt  in  me  right,  an' 
swung  him  clear  to  me  right  front,  head  undher,  he  hammerin' 
me  nose  till  the  wind  was  knocked  out  av  him  on  the  bare 
ground.  *  Stand  up,'  sez  I,  'or  I'll  kick  your  head  into  your 
chest.'     An'  I  wud  ha'  done  ut,  too,  so  ragin'  mad  I  was. 

"  'Me  collar-bone's  bruk, '  sez  he.  'Help  me  back  to  Hues. 
I'll  walk  wid  her  no  more.'     So  I  helped  him  back." 

"And  was  his  collar-bone  broken?"  I  asked,  for  I  fancied 
that  only  Learoyd  could  neatly  accomplish  that  terrible  throw. 

"He  pitched  on  his  left  shoulder-point.  It  was.  Next 
day  the  news  was  in  both  barracks ;  an'  whin  I  met  Dinah 
Shadd  wid  a  cheek  like  all  the  reg'mintal  tailors'  samples, 
there  was  no  'Good-mornin',  corp'ril,'  or  aught  else.  'An' 
what  have  I  done.  Miss  Shadd, '  sez  I,  very  bould,  plantin' 
mesilf  forninst  her,  'that  ye  should  not  pass  the  time  of  day?' 

"  'Ye've  half  killed  rough-rider  Dempsey,'  sez  she,  her 
dear  blue  eyes  fillin'  up. 

"  'Maybe,'  sez  I.  'Was  he  a  friend  av  yours  that  saw  ye 
home  four  times  in  a  fortnight?' 

"  'Yes,'  sez  she,  very  bould;  but  her  mouth  was  down  at 
the  corners.     'An' — an'  what's  that  to  you?' 

' '  '  Ask  Dempsey, '  sez  I,  purtendin'  to  go  away. 

"  'Did  you  fight  for  me  then,  ye  silly  man?'  she  sez,  tho' 
she  knew  ut  all  along. 

"  'Who  else?'  sez  I;  an'  I  tuk  wan  pace  to  the  front. 

"  'I  wasn't  worth  ut,'  sez  she,  fingerin'  her  apron. 

"  'That's  for  me  to  say,'  sez  I.     'Shall  I  say  ut?' 

"  'Yes,'  sez  she,  in  a  saint's  whisper;  an'  at  that  I  ex- 
plained mesilf ;  an'  she  tould  me  what  ivry  man  that  is  a  man, 
an'  many  that  is  a  woman,  hears  wanst  in  his  life. 

"  'But  what  made  ye  cry  at  startin',  Dinah,  darlin'?'  sez  I. 
Your — your  bloody  cheek,'  sez  she,  duckin'  her  little 


((  ( 


140  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplii?^ 

head  down  on  my  sash  (I  was  duty  for  the  day),  an'  whim- 
perin'  like  a  sorrowful  angel. 

'^'Now,  EL  man  cud  take  that  two  ways.  I  tuk  ut  as 
pleased  me  best,  an'  my  first  kiss  wid  it.  Mother  av  inno- 
cence !  but  I  kissed  her  on  the  tip  av  the  nose  an'  undher  the 
eye,  an'  a  girl  that  lets  a  kiss  come  tumbleways  like  that  has 
never  been  kissed  before.  Take  note  av  that,  sorr.  Thin  we 
wint,  hand  in  hand,  to  ould  Mother  Shadd,  like  two  little 
childher,  an'  she  said  it  was  no  bad  thing;  an'  ould  Shadd 
nodded  behind  his  pipe,  an'  Dinah  ran  away  to  her  own 
room.  That  day  I  throd  on  roUin'  clouds.  All  earth  was 
too  small  to  hould  me.  Begad,  I  cud  ha'  picked  the  sun  out 
av  the  sky  for  a  Hve  coal  to  me  pipe,  so  magnificent  I  was. 
But  I  tuk  recruities  at  squad-drill,  an'  began  with  general 
battalion  advance  whin  I  shud  ha'  been  balance-steppin'  'em. 
Eyah!  that  day!  that  day!" 

A  very  long  pause.     '*  Well?"  said  I. 

"It  was  all  wrong,"  said  Mulvaney,  with  an  enormous 
sigh,  "An'  sure  I  know  that  ev'ry  bit  av  ut  was  me  own 
f  oohshness.  That  night  I  tuk  maybe  the  half  av  three  pints 
— not  enough  to  turn  the  hair  of  a  man  in  his  natural  sinses. 
But  I  was  more  than  half  dhrunk  wid  pure  joy,  an'  that  can- 
teen beer  was  so  much  whisky  to  me.  I  can't  tell  how  ut 
came  about,  but  bekase  I  had  no  thought  for  any  wan  except 
Dinah,  bekase  I  hadn't  slipped  her  Httle  white  arms  from  me 
neck  five  minutes,  bekase  the  breath  av  her  kiss  was  not 
gone  from  my  mouth,  I  must  go  through  the  married  hnes 
on  me  way  to  quarthers,  an'  I  must  stay  talkin'  to  a  red- 
headed MuUengar  heifer  av  a  girl,  Judy  Sheehy,  that  was 
daughter  to  Mother  Sheehy,  the  wife  av  E"ick  Sheehy,  the 
canteen  sergint — -the  black  curse  av  Shielygh  be  on  the  whole 
brood  that  are  above  groun'  this  day! 

"  *  An'  what  are  ye  houldin'  your  head  that  high  for, 
corp'ril?'  sez  Judy.  *Come  in  an'  thry  a  cup  av  tay,'  she  sez, 
standin'  in  the  doorway. 

"Bein'  an  onbustable  fool,  an'  thinkin'  av  any  thin'  but 
tay,  I  wint. 


J1[)Q  Qourtii)($  of  Dii)al?  Sl^add  141 

"  *  Mother's  at  canteen,'  sez  Judy,  smoothin'  the  hair  av 
hers  that  was  like  red  snakes,  an'  lookin'  at  me  corner-ways 
out  av  her  green  cat's  eyes.     'Ye  will  not  mind,  corp'ril?' 

"  'I  can  endure,'  sez  I.  'Ould  Mother  Sheehy  bein'  no 
divarsion  av  mine,  nor  her  daughter  too. '  Judy  fetched  the 
tea-things  an'  put  thim  on  the  table,  leanin'  over  me  very 
close  to  get  them  square.     I  dhrew  back,  thinkin'  of  Dinah. 

*'  'Is  ut  afraid  you  are  av  a  girl  alone?'  sez  Judy, 

'^  'IN'o,'  sez  I.     'Why  should  I  be?' 

"  'That  rests  wid  the  girl,'  sez  Judy,  dhrawin'  her  chair 
next  to  mine. 

"  'Thin  there  let  ut  rest,'  sez  I;  an'  thinkin'  I'd  been  a 
trifle  onpolite,  I  sez,  'The  tay's  not  quite  sweet  enough  for 
me  taste.  Put  your  little  finger  in  the  cup,  Judy;  'twill 
make  ut  necthar.' 

"  'What's  necthar?'  sez  she. 

"  'Somethin'  very  sweet,'  sez  I;  an'  for  the  sinful  life  av 
me  I  cud  not  help  lookin'  at  her  out  av  the  corner  av  my  eye, 
as  I  was  used  to  look  at  a  woman. 

"  'Go  on  wid  ye,  corp'ril,'  sez  she.     'You're  a  flirt.' 

"  'On  me  sowl  I'm  not,'  sez  I. 

"  'Then  you're  a  cruel  handsome  man,  an'  that's  worse^' 
sez  she,  heavin'  big  sighs  an'  lookin'  crossways. 

"  'You  know  your  own  mind,'  sez  I. 

"  "Twud  be  better  for  me  if  I  did  not,'  she  sez. 

"  'There's  a  dale  to  be  said  on  both  sides  av  that,'  sez  I, 
not  thinkin'. 

"  'Say  your  own  part  av  ut,  then,  Terence,  darlin','  sez 
she;  'for  begad  I'm  thinkin'  I've  said  too  much  or  too  little 
for  anlionest  girl;'  an'  wid  that  she  put  her  arms  round  me 
neck  an'  kissed  me. 

"  'There's  no  more  to  be  said  afther  that,'  sez  I,  kissin' 
her  back  again.  Oh,  the  mane  scut  that  I  was,  my  head 
ringin'  wid  Dinah  Shadd !  How  does  ut  come  about,  sorr, 
that  whin  a  man  has  put  the  comether  on  wan  woman  he's 
sure  bound  to  put  ut  on  another?  'Tis  the  same  thing  at 
musketry.     Wan  day  ev'ry  shot  goes  wide  or  into  the  bank, 


i42  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplii7<J 

an'  the  next — lay  high,  lay  low,  sight  or  snap — ye  can't  get 
off  the  bull's-eye  for  ten  shots  runnin'." 

''That  only  happens  to  a  man  who  has  had  a  good  deal  of 
experience;  he  does  it  without  thinking,"  I  replied. 

"Thankin'  you  for  the  complimint,  sorr,  ut  may  be  so; 
but  I'm  doubtin'  whether  you  mint  ut  for  a  complimint. 
Hear,  now.  I  sat  there  wid  Judy  on  my  knee,  teUin'  me  ail 
manner  av  nonsinse,  an'  only  sayin'  'yes'  an'  *no,'  when  I'd 
much  better  ha'  kept  tongue  betune  teeth.  An'  that  was 
not  an  hour  af ther  I  had  left  Dinah.  ^  "What  I  was  thinkin' 
av  I  cannot  say. 

"Presently,  quiet  as  a  cat,  ould  Mother  Sheehy  came  in 
velvet-dhrunk.  She  had  her  daughter's  red  hair,  but  'twas 
bald  in  patches,  an'  I  cud  see  in  her  wicked  ould  face,  clear 
as  Hghtnin'j  what  Judy  wud  be  twenty  year  to  come.  I  was 
for  jumpin'  up,  but  Judy  niver  moved. 

"  'Terence  has  promust,  mother,'  sez  she,  an'  the  cowld 
sweat  bruk  out  all  over  me. 

"Ould  Mother  Sheehy  sat  down  of  a  heap,  an'  began 
playin'  wid  the  cups.  'Thin  you're  a  well-matched  pair,' 
she  sez,  very  thick;  'for  he's  the  biggest  rogue  that  iver 
spoiled  the  queen's  shoe-leather,  an' — ' 

"  'I'm  off,  Judy,'  sez  I.  'Ye  should  not  talk  nonsinse  to 
your  mother.     Get  her  to  bed,  girl. ' 

"  '  !N"onsinse?'  sez  the  ould  woman,  prickin'  up  her  ears 
like  a  cat,  an'  grippin'  the  table- edge.  '  'Twill  be  the  most 
nonsinsical  nonsinse  for  you,  ye  grinnin'  badger,  if  nonsinse 
'tis.     Git  clear,  you.     I'm  goin'  to  bed.' 

"I  ran  out  into  the  dhark,  me  head  in  a  stew  an'  me 
heart  sick,  but  I  had  sinse  enough  to  see  that  I'd  brought 
ut  all  on  mesilf.  'It's  this  to  pass  the  time  av  day  to  a  pan- 
jandhrum  of  hell-cats,'  sez  I.  'What  I've  said  an'  what 
I've  not  said  do  not  matther.  Judy  an'  her  dam  will  hould 
me  for  a  promust  man,  an'  Dinah  will  give  me  the  "go,  an' 
I  desarve  ut.  I  will  go  an'  get  dhrunk,'  sez  I,  'an'  forgit 
about  ut,  for  'tis  plain  I'm  not  a  marryin'  man.' 

"On  me  way  to  canteen  I  ran  against  Lascelles,  color- 


7^6  <?ourtio($  of  Dipal?  Slpadd  143 

scrgint  that  was  av  E  Comp'ny — a  hard,  hard  man,  wid  a 
tormint  av  a  wife.  'You've  the  head  av  a  drowned  man  on 
your  shoulders,'  sez  he,  'an'  you're  goin'  where  you'll  get  a 
worse  wan.  Come  back,'  sez  he.  'Let  me  go,'  sez  I.  'I've 
thrown  me  luck  over  the  wall  wid  me  own  hand.'  'Then 
that's  not  the  way  to  get  ut  back,'  sez  he.  'Have  out  wid 
your  throuble,  ye  fool-bhoy.'  An'  I  tould  him  how  the 
matther  was. 

"He  sucked  his  lower  lip.  'You've  been  thrapped,'  sez 
he.  '  Ju  Sheehy  wud  be  the  betther  for  a  man's  name  to 
hers  as  soon  as  she  can.  An'  ye  thought  ye'd  put  the 
comether  on  her.  That's  the  naturil  vanity  av  the  baste. 
Terence,  you're  a  big  born  fool,  but  you're  not  bad  enough 
to  marry  into  that  comp'ny.  If  you  said  anythin',  an'  for 
all  your  protestations  I'm  sure  you  did — or  did  not,  which  is 
worse — eat  ut  all.  Lie  like  the  father  av  all  lies,  but  come 
out  av  ut  free  av  Judy.  Do  I  not  know  what  ut  is  to  marry 
a  woman  that  was  the  very  spit  av  Judy  when  she  was 
young?  I'm  gettin'  ould,  an'  I've  larnt  patience;  but  you, 
Terence,  you'd  raise  hand  on  Judy  an'  kill  her  in  a  year. 
Never  mind  if  Dinah  gives  you  the  go;  you've  desarved  ut. 
Never  mind  if  the  whole  reg'mint  laughs  at  you  all  day. 
Get  shut  av  Judy  an'  her  mother.  They  can't  dhrag  you 
to  church,  but  if  they  do,  they'll  dhrag  you  to  hell.  Go 
back  to  your  quarthers  an'  lie  down,'  sez  he.  Thin,  over 
his  shoulder,  'You  must  ha'  done  with  thim.' 

"Nixt  day  I  wint  to  see  Dinah;  but  there  was  no  tucker 
■in  me  as  I  walked.  I  knew  the  throuble  wud  come  soon 
enough  widout  any  handlin'  av  mine,  an'  I  dreaded  ut  sore. 

' '  I  heard  Judy  callin'  me,  but  I  hild  straight  on  to  the 
Shadds'  quarthers,  an'  Dinah  wud  ha'  kissed  me,  but  I  hild 
her  back. 

"  'Whin  all's  said,  darlin','  sez  I,  'you  can  give  ut  me  if 
you  will,  tho'  I  misdoubt  'twill  be  so  easy  to  come  by  thin.' 

"I  had  scarce  begun  to  put  the  explanation  into  shape 
before  Judy  an'  her  mother  came  to  the  door.  I  think  there 
was  a  veranda,  but  I'm  forgettin'. 


144  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

**  *Will  ye  not  step  in?'  sez  Dinah,  pretty  and  polite, 
though  the  Shadds  had  no  dealin's  with  the  Sheehys.  Ould 
Mother  Shadd  looked  up  quick,  an'  she  was  the  fust  to  see 
the  throuble,  for  Dinah  was  her  daughter. 

"  'I'm  pressed  for  time  to-day,'  sez  Judy,  as  bould  as 
brass;  'an'  I've  only  come  for  Terence — my  promust  man, 
'Tis  strange  to  find  him  here  the  day  afther  the  day.' 

"Dinah  looked  at  me  as  though  I  had  hit  her,  an'  I 
answered  straight: 

"  'There  was  some  nonsinse  last  night  at  the  Sheehys' 
quarthers,  an'  Judy's  carryin'  on  the  joke,  darlin','  sez  I. 

"  'At  the  Sheehys'  quarthers?'  sez  Dinah,  very  slow; 
an'  Judy  cut  in  wid : 

"  'He  was  there  from  nine  till  tin,  Dinah  Shadd,  an'  the 
betther  haK  av  that  time  I  was  sittin'  on  his  knee,  Dinah 
Shadd.  Ye  may  look  an'  ye  may  look  an'  ye  may  look  me 
up  an'  down,  but  ye  won't  look  away  that  Terence  is  my 
promust  man.  Terence,  darlin',  'tis  time  for  us  to  be  comin' 
home. ' 

"Dinah  Shadd  never  said  word  to  Judy.  'Ye  left  me  at 
half -past  eight,'  sez  she  to  me,  'an'  I  never  thought  that  ye'd 
leave  me  for  Judy,  promises  or  no  promises.  Go  back  wid 
her,  you  that  have  to  be  fetched  by  a  girl !  I'm  done  with 
you,'  sez  she;  and  she  ran  into  her  own  room,  her  ruother 
foUowin'.  So  I  was  alone  with  those  two  women,  and  at 
liberty  to  spake  me  sintiments. 

"  'Judy  Sheehy,'  sez  I,  'if  you  made  a  fool  av  me  betune 
the  lights,  you  shall  not  do  ut  in  the  day.  I  never  promised 
you  words  or  lines. '  M 

"  'You  lie!'  sez  ould  Mother  Sheehy;  'an'  may  ut  choke 
you  where  you  stand!'     She  was  far  gone  in  dhrink. 

**  'An'  tho'  ut  choked  me  where  I  stud  I'd  not  change,' 
sez  I.  'Go  home,  Judy.  I  take  shame  for  a  decent  girl  hke 
you  dhraggin'  your  mother  out  bareheaded  on  this  errand. 
Hear,  now,  and  have  ut  for  an  answer.  I  gave  me  word  to 
Dinah  Shadd  yesterday,  an'  more  blame  to  me  I  was  with 
you  last  night  talkin'  nonsinse,  but  nothin'  more.     You've 


Jl^e  Qourtii7<$  of  Dipal?  Sl^add  145 

chosen  to  thry  to  hould  me  on  ut.  I  will  not  be  held  thereby 
for  anythin'  in  the  world.     Is  that  enough?' 

"Judy  wint  pink  all  over.  'An'  I  wish  you  joy  av  the 
perjury,'  sez  she.  'You've  lost  a  woman  that  would  ha' 
wore  her  hand  to  the  bone  for  your  pleasure ;  an'  'deed,  Ter- 
ence, ye  were  not  thrapped.'  .  ,  .  Lascelles  must  ha' spoken 
plain  to  her.  'I  am  such  as  Dinah  is — 'deed  I  am!  Ye've 
lost  a  fool  av  a  girl  that'll  never  look  at  you  again,  an'  ye've 
lost  what  ye  niver  had- — your  common  honesty.  If  you 
manage  your  men  as  you  manage  your  love-makin',  small 
wondher  they  call  you  the  worst  corp'ril  in  the  company. 
Come  away,  mother,'  sez  she. 

"But  divil  a  fut  would  the  ould  woman  budge!  *D'you 
hould  by  that?'  sez  she,  peerin'  up  under  her  thick  gray 
eyebrows. 

"  'Ay,  an'  wud,'  said  I,  'tho'  Dinah  gave  me  the  go 
twinty  times.  I'll  hav  no  thruck  with  you  or  yours,'  sez  I. 
*Take  your  child  away,  ye  shameless  woman!' 

"  'An'  am  I  shameless?'  sez  she,  bringin'  her  hands  up 
above  her  head.  'Thin  what  are  you,  ye  lyin',  schamin', 
weak-kneed,  dhirty-souled  son  of  a  sutler?  Am  I  shameless? 
Who  put  the  open  shame  on  me  an'  my  child  that  we  shud 
go  beggin'  though  the  lines  in  daylight  for  the  broken  word 
of  a  man?  Double  portion  of  my  shame  be  on  you,  Terence 
Mulvaney ,  that  think  yourself  so  strong !  By  Mary  and  the 
saints,  by  blood  and  water,  an'  by  ivry  sorrow  that  came 
Into  the  world  since  the  beginnin',  the  black  blight  fall  on 
you  and  yours,  so  that  you  may  niver  be  free  from  pain  for 
another  when  ut's  not  your  own !  May  your  heart  bleed  in 
your  breast  drop  by  drop  wid  all  your  friends  laugh  in'  at  the 
bleedin'!  Strong  you  think  yourself?  May  your  strength 
be  a  curse  to  you  to  dhrive  you  into  the  devil's  hands  against 
your  own  will!  Clear-eyed  you  are?  May  your  eyes  see 
clear  ivry  step  av  the  dark  path  you  take  till  the  hot  cinders 
av  hell  put  thim  out !  May  the  ragin'  dry  thirst  in  my  own 
ould  bones  go  to  you,  that  you  shall  never  pass  bottle  full 
nor  glass  empty!  God  preserve  the  light  av  your  under- 
Vol.  3.  7 


146  U/orks  of  P^udyard  l^ipliQ<$ 

standin'  to  you,  my  jewel  av  a  bhoy,  that  ye  may  niver  for« 
get  what  you  m.int  to  be  an'  do,  when  you're  wallowin'  in 
the  muck!  May  ye  see  the  betther  and  follow  the  worse  as 
long  as  there's  breath  in  your  body,  an'  may  ye  die  quick 
in  a  strange  land,  watchin'  your  death  before  ut  takes  you, 
an'  onable  to  stir  hand  or  fut!' 

"I  heard  a  scufflin'  in  the  room  behind,  and  thin  Dinah 
Shadd's  hand  dhropped  into  mine  like  a  roseleaf  into  a  muddy 
road. 

''The  half  av  that  I'll  take,'  sez  she,  'an'  more  too,  if  I 
can.  Go  home,  ye  silly-talkin'  woman — go  home  an'  con- 
fess.' 

"'Come   away!      Come   away!'    sez   Judy,    pulHn'   he 
mother  by  the   shawl.     '  'Twas  none   av  Terence's  fault. 
For  the  love  av  Mary,  stop  the  talkin'!' 

"'An'  you!'  said  ould  Mother  Sheehy,  spinnin'  round 
forninst  Dinah.  'Will  ye  take  the  half  av  that  man's  load? 
Stand  off  from  him,  Dinah  Shadd,  before  he  takes  you  down 
too — you  that  look  to  be  a  quarthermaster-sergint's  wife  in 
five  years.  Ye  look  too  high,  child.  Ye  shall  wash  for  the 
quarthermaster-sergint,  whin  he  pl'ases  to  give  you  the  job 
out  av  charity;  but  a  privit's  wife  ye  shall  be  to  the  end,  an' 
ivry  sorrow  of  a  privit's  wife  ye  shall  know,  an'  niver  a  joy 
but  wan,  that  shall  go  from  you  like  the  tide  from  a  rock. 
The  pain  of  bearin'  ye  shall  know,  but  niver  the  pleasure  of 
givin'  the  breast;  an'  you  shall  put  away  a  man-child  into' 
the  common  ground  wid  niver  a  priest  to  say  a  prayer  over 
him,  an'  on  that  man-child  ye  shall  think  ivry  day  av  your 
life.  Think  long,  Dinah  Shadd,  for  you'll  niver  have  an- 
other tho'  you  pray  till  your  knees  are  bleedin'.  The  moth- 
ers av  children  shall  mock  you  behind  your  back  whin  you're 
wringin'  over  the  wash-tub.  You  shall  know  what  ut  is  to 
take  a  dhrunken  husband  home  an'  see  him  go  to  the  gyard- 
room.  Will  that  pl'ase  you,  Dinah  Shadd,  that  won't  be 
seen  talkin'  to  my  daughter?  You  shall  talk  to  worse  than 
Judy  before  all's  over.  The  sergint's  wives  shall  look  down 
on  you,  contemptuous  daughter  av  a  sergint,  an'  you  shall 


pi?e  ^ourtip^  of  Dipal;  Sl^add  147 

cover  ut  all  up  wid  a  smilin'  face  wMn  your  heart's  burstin'. 
Stand  off  him,  Dinah  Shadd,  for  I've  put  the  Black  Curse 
of  Shielygh  upon  him,  an'  his  own  mouth  shall  make  ut 
good.' 

*'She  pitched  forward  on  her  head  an'  began  foamin'  at 
the  mouth.  Dinah  Shadd  ran  out  with  water,  an'  Judy 
dhragged  the  ould  woman  into  the  veranda  till  she  sat  up. 

'.'  'I'm  old  an'  forlorn,'  she  sez,  tremblin'  an'  cryin',  'an' 
'tis  like  I  say  a  dale  more  than  I  mane. ' 

"  'When  you're  able  to  walk — go,'  says  ould  Mother 
Shadd.  *This  house  has  no  place  for  the  likes  av  you,  that 
have  cursed  my  daughter.' 

"  'Eyah!'  said  the  ould  woman.  *Hard  words  break  no 
bones,  an'  Dinah  Shadd'U  kape  the  love  av  her  husband  till 
my  bones  are  green  com.  Judy,  darlin',  I  misremember 
what  I  came  here  for.  Can  you  lend  us  the  bottom  av  a 
taycup  av  tay,  Mrs.  Shadd':'' 

**But  Judy  dhragged  her  off,  cryin'  as  tho'  her  heart  wud 
break.  An'  Dinah  Shadd  an'  I,  in  ten  minutes  we  had  forgot 
ut  ail." 

"Then  why  do  you  remember  it  now?"  said  I« 

" Is  ut  like  I'd  f orgit?  Ivry  word  that  wicked  ould  woman 
spoke  fell  thrue  in  my  life  aftherward ;  an'  I  cud  ha'  stud  ut 
all — stud  ut  all,  except  fwhen  little  Shadd  was  bom.  That 
was  on  the  line  av  march  three  months  afther  the  regiment 
was  taken  wid  cholera.  We  were  betune  Umballa  an'  Kalka 
•thin,  an'  I  was  on  picket.  When  I  came  off,  the  women 
showed  me  the  child,  an'  ut  turned  on  uts  side  an'  died  as  I 
looked.  We  buried  him  by  the  road,  an'  Father  Tictory  was 
a  day's  march  behind  wid  the  heavy  baggage,  so  the  com- 
p'ny  captain  read  prayer.  An'  since  then  I've  been  a  child- 
less man,  an'  all  else  that  ould  Mother  Sheehy  put  upon  me 
an'  Dinah  Shadd.     What  do  you  think,  sorr?" 

I  thought  a  gpod  deal,  but  it  seemed  better  then  to  reach 
out  for  Mulvaney's  hand.  This  demonstration  nearly  cost 
me  the  use  of  three  fingers.  Whatever  he  knows  of  his 
weaknesses,  Mulvaney  is  entirely  ignorant  of  his  strength. 


14r»  U/orH;s  of  I^adyard  I^iplip^ 

"But  what  do  you  think?"  he  insisted,  as  I  was  straight- 
ening out  the  crushed  member. 

My  reply  was  drowned  in  yells  and  outcries  from  the  next 
fire,  where  ten  men  were  shouting  for  "Orth'ris!"  "Privit 
Orth'ris!"  "Mistah  Or-ther-is!'  "Deah  Boy!"  "Cap'n 
Orth'ris!"  "Field- Marshal  Orth'ris!"  "Stanley,  you  pen- 
n'orth o'  pop,  come  'ere  to  your  own  comp'ny!"  And  the 
Cockney,  who  had  been  delighting  another  audience  ,with 
recondite  and  Rabelaisian  yarns,  was  shot  down  among  his 
admirers  by  the  major  force. 

"You've  crumpled  my  dress-shirt  'orrid,"  said  he;  "an'  I 
shan't  sing  no  more  to  this  'ere  bloomin'  drawin'-room." 

Learoyd,  roused  by  the  confusion,  uncoiled  himself,  crept 
behind  Ortheris,  and  raised  him  aloft  on  his  shoulders. 

"Sing,  ye  bloomin'  hummin'-bird!"  said  he;  and  Orth- 
eris, beating  time  on  Learoyd's  skull,  delivered  himself,  in 
the  raucous  voice  of  the  Ratcliffe  Highway,  of  the  following 
chaste  and  touching  ditty : 

"My  girl  she  give  me  the  go  oncet, 

When  I  was  a  London  lad, 
An'  I  went  on  the  drunk  for  a  fortnight. 

An'  then  I  went  to  the  bad. 
The  queen  she  gave  me  a  shillin', 

To  fight  for  'er  over  the  seas ; 
But  guv'ment  built  me  a  fever  trap, 

An'  Injia  gave  me  disease. 

Vhorus, — "Hoi  don't  you  'eed  what  a  girl  says, 
An'  don't  you  go  for  the  beer; 
But  I  was  an  ass  when  I  was  at  grass, 
An'  that  is  why  I'm  'ere. 


ec 


I  fired  a  shot  at  an  Afghan; 

The  beggar  'e  fired  again ; 
An'  I  lay  on  my  bed  with  a  'ole  in  my  'ead, 

An'  missed  the  next  campaign ! 
I  up  with  my  gun  at  a  Burman 

Who  carried  a  bloomin'  dah, 
But  the  cartridge  stuck  an'  the  bay 'nit  bruk, 

An'  ail  I  got  was  the  scar. 


Jlpe  ^ourtip($  of  Dipal?  Sljadd  149 

Chorus, — "Ho!  don't  you  aim  at  a  Afghan 

When  you  stand  on  the  sky-hne  clear; 
An'  don't  you  go  for  a  Burman 
If  none  o'  your  friends  is  near. 

**I  served  my  time  for  a  corporal, 

An'  wetted  my  stripes  with  pop. 
For  I  went  on  the  bend  with  a  intimate  f riend. 

An'  finished  the  night  in  the  shop, 
I  served  my  time  for  a  sergeant ; 

The  colonel  'e  sez  '!N'o! 
The  most  you'll  be  is  a  full  0.  B,'  * 

An' — very  next  night  'twas  so. 

Chorus. — "Ho!  don't  you  go  for  a  corp'ral, 
Unless  your  'ead  is:  clear; 
But  I  was  an  ass  when  I  was  at  grass. 

An'  that  is  why  I'm  'ere. 

**I've  tasted  the  luck  o'  the  army 

In  barrack  an'  camp  an'  clink, 
An'  I  lost  my  tip  through  the  bloomin'  trip 

Along  o'  the  women  an'  drink. 
I'm  down  at  the  heel  o'  my  service, 

An'  when  I  am  laid  on  the  shelf, 
My  very  wust  friend  from  beginning  to  end^ 

By  the  blood  of  a  mouse,  was  myself. 

Chorus, — *'Ho!  don't  you  'eed  what  a  girl  says, 
An'  don't  you  go  for  the  beer; 
But  I  was  an  ass  when  I  was  at  grass, 
An'  that  is  why  I'm  'ere." 

*' Ay,  listen  to  our  little  man  now,  singin'  and  shoutin'  as 
tho'  trouble  had  never  touched  him!  D'ye  remember  when 
he  went  mad  with  the  homesickness?"  said  Mulvaney,  re- 
calling a  never-to-be-forgotten  season  when  Ortheris  waded 
through  the  deep  waters  of  affliction  and  behaved  abomi» 
nably.     *'But  he's  talkin'  the  bitter  truth,  tho'.     Eyahl 

*'  'My  very  worst  friend  from  beginning  to  end, 
By  the  blood  of  a  mouse,  was  mesilf.' 


*  Confined  to  barracks. 


150  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  \{ipUT)<^ 

Hark  out!"  he  continued,  jumping  to  his  feet.  "What  did 
I  tell  you,  sorr?" 

Fttl!  spttl!  whttl!  went  the  rifles  of  the  picket  in  the 
darkness,  and  we  heard  their  feet  rushing  toward  us  as 
Ortheris  tumbled  past  me  and  into  his  greatcoat.  It  is  an 
impressive  thing,  even  in  peace,  to  see  an  armed  camp  spring 
to  life  with  clatter  of  accouterments,  click  of  Martini  levers, 
and  blood-curdling  speculations  as  to  the  fate  of  missing 
boots.  "Pickets  dhriven  in,"  said  Mulvaney,  staring  like 
a  buck  at  bay  into  the  soft,  clinging  gloom.  "Stand  by  an' 
kape  close  to  us.  If  'tis  cav'lry,  they  may  blundher  into  the 
fires." 

Tr — ra  ra!  ta — ra — la!  sung  the  thrice-blessed  bugle, 
and  the  rush  to  form  square  began.  There  is  much  rest  and 
peace  in  the  heart  of  a  square  if  you  arrive  in  time  and  are 
not  trodden  upon  too  frequently.  The  smell  of  leather  belts, 
fatigue  uniform,  and  unpacked  humanity  is  comforting. 

A  dull  grumble,  that  seemed  to  come  from  every  point  of 
the  compass  at  once,  struck  our  listening  ears,  and  little 
thrills  of  excitement  ran  down  the  faces  of  the  square  =  Those 
who  write  so  learnedly  about  judging  distance  by  sound 
should  hear  cavalry  on  the  move  at  night.  A  high-pitched 
yell  on  the  left  told  us  that  the  disturbers  were  friends — the 
cavalry  of  the  attack,  who  had  missed  their  direction  in  the 
darkness,  and  were  feeling  blindly  for  some  sort  of  support 
and  camping-ground.  The  difficulty  explained,  they  jin- 
gled on. 

"Double  pickets  out  there;  by  your  arms  lie  down  and 
sleep  the  rest,"  said  the  major,  and  the  square  melted  away 
as  the  men  scrambled  for  their  places  by  the  fires.  ^ 

When  I  woke  I  saw  Mulvaney,  the  night-dew  gemming 
his  mustache,  leaning  on  his  rifle  at  picket,  lonely  as  Pro- 
metheus on  his  rock,  with  I  know  not  what  vultures  tearing 
his  liver. 


THE    MAN    WHO    WAS 

Let  it  be  clearly  understood  that  the  Russian  is  a  delight- 
ful person  till  he  tucks  his  shirt  in.  As  an  Oriental  he  is 
charming.  It  is  only  when  he  insists  upon  being  treated  as 
the  most  easterly  of  Western  peoples,  instead  of  the  most 
westerly  of  Easterns,  that  he  becomes  a  racial  anomaly  ex- 
tremely difficult  to  handle.  The  host  never  knows  which 
side  of  his  nature  is  going  to  turn  up  next. 

Dirkovitch  was  a  Russian — a  Russian  of  the  Russians,  as 
he  said— who  appeared  to  get  his  bread  by  serving  the  czar 
as  an  officer  in  a  Cossack  regiment,  and  corresponding  for  a 
Russian  newspaper  with  a  name  that  was  never  twice  the 
same.  He  was  a  handsome  young  Oriental,  with  a  taste  fo« 
wandering  through  unexplored  portions  of  the  earth,  and  he 
arrived  in  India  from  nowhere  in  particular.  At  least  no 
living  man  could  ascertain  whether  it  was  by  way  of  Balkh, 
Budukhshan,  Chitrai,  Beloochistan,  Nepaul,  or  anywhere 
else.  The  Indian  government,  being  in  an  unusually  affable 
mood,  gave  orders  that  he  was  to  be  civilly  treated,  and 
shown  everything  that  was  to  be  seen ;  so  he  drifted,  talking 
bad  English  and  worse  French,  from  one  city  to  another  till 
he  foregathered  with  her  Majesty's  White  Hussars  in  the 
city  of  Peshawar,  which  stands  at  the  mouth  of  that  narrow 
sword-cut  in  the  hills  that  men  call  the  Khyber  Pass.  He 
was  -undoubtedly  an  officer,  and  he  was  decorated,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Russians,  with  little  enameled  crosses,  and  he 
could  talk,  and  (though  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  his 
merits)  he  had  been  given  up  as  a  hopeless  task  or  case  by 
the  Black  Tyrones,  who,  individually  and  collectively,  with 
hot  whisky  and  honey,  mulled  brandy  and  mixed  spirits  of 
all  kinds,  had  striven  in  all  hospitality  to  make  him  drunk . 
And  when  the  Black  Tyrones,  who  are  exclusively  Irish,  fail 

(151) 


i52  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^ipliij^ 

to  disturb  the  peace  of  head  of  a  foreigner,  that  foreigner  is 
certain  to  be  a  superior  man.  This  was  the  argiunent  of  the 
Black  Tyrones,  but  they  were  ever  an  unruly  and  self- 
opinionated  regiment,  and  they  allowed  junior  subalterns  of 
four  years'  service  to  choose  their  wines.  The  spirits  were 
always  purchased  by  the  colonel  and  a  committee  of  majors. 
And  a  regiment  that  would  so  behave  may  be  respected  but 
cannot  be  loved. 

The  White  Hussars  were  as  conscientious  in  choosing 
their  wine  as  in  charging  the  enemy.  There  was  a  brandy 
that  had  been  purchased  by  a  cultured  colonel  a  few  years 
after  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  It  has  been  maturing  ever 
since,  and  it  was  a  marvelous  brandy  at  the  purchasing. 
The  memory  of  that  liquor  would  cause  men  to  weep  as 
they  lay  dying  in  the  teak  forests  of  Upper  Burmah  or  the 
slime  of  the  Irrawaddy.  And  there  was  a  port  which  was 
notable ;  and  there  was  a  champagne  of  an  obscure  brand, 
which  always  came  to  m.ess  without  any  labels,  because  the 
White  Hussars  wished  none  to  know  where  the  source  of 
supply  might  be  found.  The  officer  on  whose  head  the 
champagne-choosing  lay  was  forbidden  the  use  of  tobacco  for 
six  weeks  previous  to  sampling. 

This  particularity  of  detail  is  necessary  to  emphasize  the 
fact  that  that  champagne,  that  port,  and,  above  all,  that 
brandy— the  green  and  yellow  and  white  liqueurs  did  not 
count — was  placed  at  the  absolute  disposition  of  Dirkovitch, 
and  he  enjoyed  himself  hugely— -even  more  than  among  the 
Black  Tyrones. 

But  he  remained  distressingly  European  through  it  all. 
The  White  Hussars  were— "My  dear  true  friends,"  ** Fellow- 
soldiers  glorious, *'  and  "Brothers  inseparable."  He  would 
unburden  himself  by  the  hour  on  the  glorious  future  that 
awaited  the  combined  arms  of  England  and  Russia  "when 
their  hearts  and  their  territories  should  run  side  by  side,  and 
the  great  mission  of  civilizing  Asia  should  begin.  That  was 
unsatisfactory,  because  Asia  is  not  going  to  be  civilized  after 
the  methods  of  the  West.     There  is  too  much  Asia,  and  she 


7I?e  /I\ap  U/I70  U/as  153 

is  too  old.  You  cannot  reform  a  lady  of  many  lovers,  and 
Asia  has  been  insatiable  in  her  flirtations  aforetime.  She 
will  never  attend  Sunday-school,  or  learn  to  vote  save  with 
swords  for  tickets. 

Dirkovitch  knew  this  as  well  as  any  one  else,  but  it  suited 
him  to  talk  special-correspondently  and  to  make  himself  as 
genial  as  he  could.  !N"ow  and  then  he  volunteered  a  little,  a 
very  little,  information  about  his  own  Sotnia  of  Cossacks, 
left  apparently  to  look  after  themselves  somewhere  at  the 
back  of  beyond.  He  had  done  rough  work  in  Central  Asia, 
and  had  seen  rather  more  help-yourself  fighting  than  most 
men  of  his  years.  But  he  was  careful  never  to  betray  his 
superiority,  and  more  than  careful  to  praise  on  all  occasions 
the  appearance,  drill,  uniform,  and  organization  of  her 
Majesty's  White  Hussars.  And,  indeed,  they  were  a  regi- 
ment to  be  admired.  When  Mrs.  Durgan,  widow  of  the  late 
Sir  John  Durgan,  arrived  in  their  station,  and  after  a  short 
time  had  been  proposed  to  by  every  single  man  at  mess,  she 
put  the  public  sentiment  very  neatly  when  she  explained  that 
they  were  all  so  nice  that  unless  she  could  marry  them  all, 
including  the  colonel  and  some  majors  who  were  already 
married,  she  was  not  going  to  content  herself  with  one  of 
them.  Wherefore  she  wedded  a  little  man  in  a  rifle  regiment 
—being  by  nature  contradictious — -and  the  White  Hussars 
were  going  to  wear  crape  on  their  arms,  but  compromised  by 
attending  the  wedding  in  full  force,  and  lining  the  aisle  with 
unutterable  reproach.  She  had  jilted  them  all — from  Basset- 
Holmer,  the  senior  captain,  to  Little  Mildred,  the  last  subal- 
tern, and  he  could  have  given  her  four  thousand  a  year  and 
a  title.  He  was  a  viscount,  and  on  his  arrival  the  mess  had 
said  he  had  better  go  into  the  Guards,  because  they  were  all 
sons  of  large  grocers  and  small  clothiers  in  the  Hussars,  but 
Mildred  begged  very  hard  to  be  allowed  to  stay,  and  behaved 
so  prettily  that  he  was  forgiven,  and  became  a  man,  which  is 
much  more  important  than  being  any  sort  of  viscount. 

The  only  persons  who  did  not  share  the  general  regard  for 
the  White  Hussars  were  a  few  thousand  gentlemen  of  Jewish 


154  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

extraction  who  Kved  across  tlie  border,  and  answered  to  the 
name  of  Pathan.  They  had  only  met  the  regiment  officially, 
and  for  something  less  than  twenty  minutes,  but  the  inter- 
view, which  was  complicated  with  many  casualties,  had 
filled  them  with  prejudice.  They  even  called  the  "White 
Hussars  "children  of  the  devil,"  and  sons  of  persons  whom 
it  would  be  perfectly  impossible  to  meet  in  decent  society. 
Yet  they  were  not  above  making  their  aversion  fill  their 
money-belts.  The  regiment  possessed  carbines,  beautiful 
Martini- Henry  carbines,  that  would  cob  a  bullet  into  an 
enemy's  camp  at  one  thousand  yards,  and  were  even  handier 
than  the  long  rifle.  Therefore  they  were  coveted  all  along 
the  border,  and,  since  demand  inevitably  breeds  supply,  they 
were  supplied  at  the  risk  of  life  and  limb  for  exactly  their 
weight  in  coined  silver — seven  and  one-half  pounds  of  rupees, 
or  sixteen  pounds  and  a  few  shillings  each,  reckoning  the 
rupee  at  par.  They  were  stolen  at  night  by  snaky-haired 
thieves  that  crawled  on  their  stomachs  under  the  nose  of  the 
sentries ;  they  disappeared  mysteriously  from  arm-racks ;  and 
in  the  hot  weather,  when  all  the  doors  and  windows  were 
open,  they  vanished  like  puffs  of  their  own  smoke.  The 
border  people  desired  them  first  for  their  own  family 
vendettas,  and  then  for  contingencies.  But  in  the  long 
cold  nights  of  the  Northern  Indian  winter  they  were 
stolen  most  extensively.  The  traffic  of  murder  was  liveliest 
among  the  hills  at  that  season,  and  prices  ruled  high.  The 
regimental  guards  were  first  doubled  and  then  trebled.  A 
trooper  does  not  much  care  if  he  loses  a  weapon — govern- 
ment must  make  it  good — ^but  he  deeply  resents  the  loss  of 
his  sleep.  The  regiment  grew  very  angry,  and  one  night- 
thief  who  managed  to  limp  away  bears  the  visible  marks  of 
their  anger  upon  him  to  this  hour.  That  incident  stopped 
the  burglaries  for  a  time,  and  the  guards  were  reduced  ac- 
cordingly, and  the  regiment  devoted  itself  to  polo  with  un- 
expected results,  for  it  beat  by  two  goals  to  one  that  very 
terrible  polo  corps  the  Lushkar  Light  Horse,  though  the 
latter  had  four  ponies  apiece  for  a  short  hour's  fight,  as  well 


ne  /T\ai?  U/I?o  U/as  155 

as  a  native  officer  who  played  like  a  lambent  flame  across  the 
ground. 

Then  they  gave  a  dinner  to  celebrate  the  event.  The 
Lushkar  team  came,  and  Dirkovitch  came,  in  the  fullest  full 
uniform  of  a  Cossack  officer,  which  is  as  full  as  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  was  introduced  to  the  Lushkars,  and  opened  his 
eyes  as  he  regarded  them.  They  were  hghter  men  than  the 
Hussars,  and  they  carried  themselves  with  the  swing  that  is 
the  peculiar  right  of  the  Punjab  frontier  force  and  all  irregular 
horse.  Like  everything  else  in  the  service,  it  has  to  be 
learned ;  but,  unlike  many  things,  it  is  never  forgotten,  and 
remains  on  the  body  till  death. 

The  great  beam-roofed  mess-room  of  the  "White  Hussars 
was  a  sight  to  be  remembered.  All  the  mess-plate  was  on 
the  long  table— the  same  table  that  had  served  up  the  bodies 
of  five  dead  officers  in  a  forgotten  fight  long  and  long  ago 
— the  dingy,  battered  standards  faced  the  door  of  entrance, 
clumps  of  winter  roses  lay  between  the  silver  candlesticks, 
the  portraits  of  eminent  officers  deceased  looked  down  on 
their  successors  from  between  the  heads  of  sambhur,  nilghai, 
maikhor,  and,  pride  of  all  the  mess,  two  grinning  snov/- 
leopards  that  had  cost  Basset-Holmer  four  months'  leave 
that  he  might  have  spent  in  England  instead  of  on  the  road 
to  Thibet,  and  the  daily  risk  of  his  life  on  ledge,  snow-sHde, 
and  glassy  grass-slope. 

The  servants,  in  spotless  white  muslin  and  the  crest  of 
their  regiments  on  the  brow  of  their  turbans,  waited  behind 
their  masters,  who  were  clad  in  the  scarlet  and  gold  of  the 
White  Hussars  and  the  cream  and  silver  of  the  Lushkar  Light 
Horse.  Dirkovitch' s  dull  green  uniform  was  the  only  dark 
spot  at  the  board,  but  his  big  onyx  eyes  made  up  for  it.  He 
was  fraternizing  effusively  with  the  captain  of  the  Lushkar 
team,  who  was  wondering  how  many  of  Dirkovitch's  Cos- 
sacks his  own  long,  lathy  down-countrymen  could  account 
for  in  a  fair  charge.  But  one  does  not  speak  of  these  things 
openly. 

The  talk  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  the  regimental  band 


156  U/orKs  of  T^udyard  K^plii)<$ 

played  between  the  courses,  as  is  the  immemoria*  custom,  till 
all  tongues  ceased  for  a  moment  with  the  removal  of  the 
dinner  slips  and  the  First  Toast  of  Obligation,  when  the 
colonel,  rising,  said:  "Mr.  Vice,  the  Queen,"  and  Little  Mil- 
dred from  the  bottom  of  the  table  answered:  "The  Queen, 
God  bless  her!"  and  the  big  spurs  clanked  as  the  big  men 
heaved  themselves  up  and  drank  the  Queen,  upon  whose  pay 
they  were  falsely  supposed  to  pay  their  mess-bills.  That 
sacrament  of  the  mess  never  grows  old,  and  never  ceases  to 
bring  a  lump  into  the  throat  of  the  listener  wherever  he  be, 
by  land  or  by  sea,  Dirkovitch  rose  with  his  "brothers  glori- 
vDus,"  but  he  could  not  understand.  No  one  but  an  officer 
can  understand  what  the  toast  means ;  and  the  bulk  have 
more  sentiment  than  comprehension.  It  all  comes  to  the  same 
in  the  end,  as  the  enemy  said  when  he  was  wriggling  on  a 
lance-point.  Immediately  after  the  little  silence  that  follows 
on  the  ceremony  there  entered  the  native  officer  who  had 
played  for  the  Lushkar  team.  He  could  not  of  course  eat 
with  the  alien,  but  he  came  in  at  dessert,  all  six  feet  of  him, 
Vfith  the  blue-and-silver  turban  atop  and  the  big  black  top- 
boots  below.  The  mess  rose  joyously  as  he  thrust  forward 
the  hilt  of  his  saber,  in  token  of  fealty,  for  the  colonel  of  the 
"White  Hussars  to  touch,  and  dropped  into  a  vacant  chair 
amid  shouts  of  ^''Rung  ho!  Hira  Singh!"  (which  being  trans- 
lated means  "Go  in  and  win!").  "Did  I  whack  you  over 
the  knee,  old  man?"  "Kessaidar  Sahib,  what  the  devil 
made  you  play  that  kicking  pig  of  a  pony  in  the  last  ten 
minutes?"  "Shabash,  Kessaidar  Sahib!"  Then  the  voice  of 
the  colonel:  "The  health  of  Kessaidar  Hira  Singh!" 

After  the  shouting  had  died  away,  Hira  Singh  rose  to 
repl}^,  for  he  was  the  cadet  of  a  royal  house,  the  son  of  a 
king's  son,  and  knew  what  was  due  on  these  occasions. 
Thus  he  spoke  in  the  vernacular: 

"Colonel  Sahib  and  officers  of  this  regiment,  much  honor 
have  you  done  me.  This  will  I  remember.  We  came  down 
from  afar  to  play  you;  but  we  were  beaten."  ("No  fault  of 
yours,  Kessaidar  Sahib.     Played  on  your  own  ground,  y' 


JI?e  /I\ap  \I/l70  U/as  157 

know.  Your  ponies  were  cramped  from  the  raflway.  Don't 
apologize.")  ''Therefore  perhaps  we  will  come  again  if  it  be 
so  ordained."  ("Hear!  Hear,  hear,  indeed !  Bravo!  H'sh!") 
"Then  we  will  play  you  afresh"  ("Happy  to  meet  you"), 
"till  there  are  left  no  feet  upon  our  ponies.  Thus  far  for 
sport."  He  dropped  one  hand  on  his  sword-hilt,  and  his  eye 
wandered  to  Dirkovitch  lolling  back  in  his  chair.  "But  if  by 
the  will  of  God  there  arises  any  other  game  which  is  not  the 
polo  game,  then  be  assured.  Colonel  Sahib  and  officers,  that 
we  shall  play  it  out  side  by  side,  though  they'^- — again  his  eye 
sought  Dirkovitch— -"though  they,  I  say,  have  fifty  ponies  to 
our  one  horse."  And  with  a  deep-mouthed  Bung  ho!  that 
rang  like  a  musket-butt  on  flag-stones,  he  sat  down  amid 
shoutings. 

Dirkovitch,  who  had  devoted  himself  steadily  to  the 
brandy — the  terrible  brandy  aforementioned — did  not  under- 
stand, nor  did  the  expurgated  translations  offered  to  him  at 
all  convey  the  point.  Decidedly  the  native  officer's  was  the 
speech  of  the  evening,  and  the  clamor  might  have  continued 
to  the  dawn  had  it  not  been  broken  by  the  noise  of  a  shot 
without  that  sent  every  man  feeling  at  his  defenseless  left 
side.  It  is  notable  that  Dirkovitch  "reached  back,"  after  the 
American  fashion — a  gesture  that  set  the  captain  of  the 
Lushkar  team  wondering  how  Cossack  officers  were  armed 
at  mess.     Then  there  was  a  scuffle  and  a  yell  of  pain. 

"Carbine-stealing  again!"  said  the  adjutant,  calmly 
sinking  back  in  his  chair.  "This  comes  of  reducing  the 
guards.     I  hope  the  sentries  have  killed  him." 

The  feet  of  armed  men  pounded  on  the  veranda  Sags, 
and  it  sounded  as  though  something  was  being  dragged. 

"Why  don't  they  put  him  in  the  cells  till  the  morning?" 
said  the  colonel,  testily.  "See  if  they've  damaged  hinij 
sergeant. ' ' 

The  mess-sergeant  fled  out  into  the  darkness,  and  re- 
turned with  two  troopers  and  a  corporal,  all  very  much 
perplexed. 

"Caught  a  man  stealin'  carbines,  sir,"  said  the  corporaL 


158  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  i{ipllT)<^ 

*' Leastways  'e  was  crawlin'  toward  the  barricks,  sir,  past 
the  main-road  sentries;  an'  the  sentry  'e  says,  sir — " 

The  Hmp  heap  of  rags  upheld  by  the  three  men  groaned. 
Kever  was  seen  so  destitute  and  demorahzed  an  Afghan.  Ho 
was  turbanless,  shoeless,  caked  with  dirt,  and  all  but  dead 
with  rough  handling.  Hira  Singh  started  slightly  at  the 
sound  of  the  man's  pain.  Dirko^dtch  took  another  liqueur- 
glass  of  brandy. 

'*  What  does  the  sentry  say?"  said  the  colonel. 

*'Sez  he  speaks  English,  sir,"  said  the  corporal. 

"So  you  brought  him  into  mess  instead  of  handing  himj 
over  to  the  sergeant!  If  he  spoke  all  the  tongues  of  thel 
Pentecost,  you've  no  business—" 

Again  the  bundle  groaned  and  muttered.     Little  Mildred' 
had  risen  from  his  place  to  inspect.     He  jumped  back  as 
though  he  had  been  shot. 

^* Perhaps  it  would  be  better,  sir,  to  send  the  men  away," 
said  he  to  the  colonel,  for  he  was  a  much-privileged  sub- 
altern. He  put  his  arms  round  the  rag-bound  horror  as  he 
spoke,  and  dropped  him  into  a  chair.  It  may  not  have  been 
explained  that  the  littleness  of  Mildred  lay  in  his  being  six 
feet  four,  and  big  in  proportion.  The  corporal,  seeing  that 
an  officer  was  disposed  to  look  after  the  capture,  and 
that  the  colonel's  eye  was  beginning  to  blaze,  promptly 
removed  himseK  and  his  men.  The  mess  was  left  alone 
with  the  carbine  thief,  who  laid  his  head  on  the  table  and 
wept  bitterly,  hopelessly,  and  inconsolably,  as  Uttle  children 
weep. 

Hira  Singh  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  long-drawn  vernacu- 
lar oath.  *' Colonel  Sahib,"  said  he,  "that  man  is  no  Afghan, 
for  they  weep  ^Ail  AiP  'Nov  is  he  of  Hindustan,  for  they 
weep  *  Oh!  HoP  He  weeps  after  the  fashion  of  the  white- 
men,  who  say  ^Ow!    OwP  " 

"I^ow  where  the  dickens  did  you  get  that  knowledge, 
Hira  Singh?"  said  the  captain  of  the  Lushkar  team. 

"Hear  him!"  said  Hira  Singh,  simply,  pointing  at  the 
crumpled  figure,  that  wept  as  though  it  would  never  cease. 


Tl?e  f[\zT)  U/l?o  U/as  159 

"He  said,  ^  My  God!'"  said  Little  Mildred.  **I  heard 
him  say  it." 

The  colonel  and  the  mess-room  looked  at  the  man  in 
silence.  It  is  a  horrible  thing  to  hear  a  man  cry.  A  woman 
can  sob  from  the  top  of  her  palate,  or  her  lips,  or  anywhere 
else,  but  a  man  cries  from  his  diaphragm,  and  it  rends  him 
to  pieces.  Also,  the  exhibition  causes  the  throat  of  the  on- 
looker to  close  at  the  top. 

*'Poor  devil!"  said  the  colonel,  coughing  tremendously. 
**We  ought  to  send  him  to  hospital.  He's  been  man- 
handled. ' ' 

Now  the  adjutant  loved  his  rifles.  They  were  to  him  as 
his  grandchildren — the  men  standing  in  the  first  place.  He 
grunted  rebelliously :  *'I  can  understand  an  Afghan  steaKng, 
because  he's  made  that  way.  But  I  can't  understand  his 
crying.     That  makes  it  worse. " 

The  brandy  must  have  affected  Dirkovitch,  for  he  lay 
back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  the  ceiling.  There  was  noth- 
ing special  in  the  ceihng  beyond  a  shadow  as  of  a  huge  black 
coffin.  Owing  to  some  peculiarity  in  the  construction  of  the 
mess-room,  this  shadow  was  always  thrown  when  the  candles 
were  Kghted.  It  never  disturbed  the  digestion  of  the  White 
Hussars.     They  were,  in  fact,  rather  proud  of  it. 

"Is  he  going  to  cry  all  night,"  said  the  colonel,  "or  are 
we  supposed  to  sit  up  with  Little  Mildred's  guest  until  he 
feels  better?" 

The  man  in  the  chair  threw  up  his  head  and  stared  at  the 
mess.  ,  Outside,  the  wheels  of  the  first  of  those  bidden  to 
the  festivities  crunched  the  roadway. 

**0h,  my  God!"  said  the  man  in  the  chair,  and  every 
soul  in  the  mess  rose  to  his  feet.  Then  the  Lushkar  captain 
did  a  deed  for  which  he  ought  to  have  been  given  the  Vic- 
toria Cross— distinguished  gallantry  in  a  fight  against  over- 
whelming curiosity.  He  picked  up  his  team  with  his  eyes 
as  the  hostess  picks  up  the  ladies  at  the  opportune  moment, 
and  pausing  only  by  the  colonel's  chair  to  say:  "This  isn't 
our  affair,  you  know,  sir,"  led  the  team  into  the  veranda 


160  U/orl^s  of  r^udyard  ^iplip^ 

and  the  gardens.  Hira  Singh  was  the  last,  and  he  looked 
at  Dirkovitch  as  he  moved.  But  Dirkovitch  had  departed 
into  a  brandy  paradise  of  his  own.  His  Hps  moved  without 
sound,  and  he  was  studying  the  coffin  on  the  ceiling. 

*' White — white  all  over,"  said  Basset-Holmer,  the  ad-| 
jutant.     ' '  What  a  pernicious  renegade  he  must  be !     I  wonder 
where  he  came  from?" 

The  colonel  shook  the  man  gently  by  the  arm,  and  "Who 
are  you?"  said  he. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  man  stared  round  the  mess- 
room  and  smiled  in  the  colonel's  face.  Little  Mildred,  who 
was  always  more  of  a  woman  than  a  man  till  "Boot  and 
saddle"  was  sounded,  repeated  the  question  in  a  voice  that 
would  have  drawn  confidences  from  a  geyser.  The  man 
only  smiled.  Dirkovitch,  at  the  far  end  of  the  table,  slid 
gently  from  his  chair  to  the  floor.  'No  son  of  Adam,  in  this 
present  imperfect  world,  can  mix  the  Hussars'  champagne 
with  the  Hussars'  brandy  by  five  and  eight  glasses  of  each 
without  remembering  the  pit  whence  he  has  been  digged  and 
descended  thither.  The  band  began  to  play  the  tune  with 
which  the  White  Hussars,  from  the  date  of  their  formation, 
preface  all  their  functions.  They  would  sooner  be  disbanded 
than  abandon  that  tune.  It  is  a  part  of  their  system.  The 
man  straightened  himself  in  his  chair  and  drumraed  on  the 
table  with  his  fingers. 

"I  don't  see  why  we  should  entertain  lunatics,"  said  the 
colonel;  "call  a  guard  and  send  him  off  to  the  cells.  We'll 
look  into  the  business  in  the  morning.  Give  him  a  glass  of 
wine  first,  though." 

Little  Mildred  filled  a  sherry  glass  with  the  brandy  and 
thrust  it  over  to  the  man.  He  drank,  and  the  tune  rose 
louder,  and  he  straightened  himself  yet  more.  Then  he  put 
out  his  long-taloned  hands  to  a  piece  of  plate  opposite  and 
fingered  it  lovingly.  There  was  a  mystery  connected  with 
that  piece  of  plate  in  the  shape  of  a  spring,  which  converted 
what  was  a  seven-branched  candlestick,  three  springs  each 
side  and  one  in  the  middle,  into  a  sort  of  wheel-spoke  can- 


Jl^e  /I\a9  U/I?o  U/as  161 

delabrum.  He  found  the  spring,  pressed  it,  and  laughed 
weakly.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  inspected  a  picture  on 
the  wall,  then  moved  on  to  another  picture,  the  mess  watch* 
ing  him  without  a  word.  When  he  came  to  the  mantel-piece 
he  shook  his  head  and  seemed  distressed.  A  piece  of  plate 
representing  a  mounted  hussar  in  full  uniform  caught  his 
eye.  He  pointed  to*  it,  and  then  to  the  mantel-piece,  with 
inquiry  in  his  eyes. 

**  What  is  it— oh,  what  is  it?"  said  Little  Mildred.  Then, 
as  a  mother  might  speak  to  a  child,  *'That  is  a  horse—yes, 
ahorse." 

Very  slowly  came  the  answer,  in  a  thick,  passionless  gut- 
tural: *'Yes,  I— have  seen.     But— where  is  the  horse?" 

He  could  have  heard  the  hearts  of  the  mess  beating  as 
the  men  drew  hack  to  give  the  stranger  full  room  in  his 
wanderings.     There  was  no  question  of  calling  the  guard. 

Again  he  spoke,  very  slowly:  *' Where  is  our  horse?" 

There  is  no  saying  what  happened  after  that.  There  is 
but  one  horse  in  the  White  Hussars,  and  his  portrait  hangs 
outside  the  door  of  the  mess-room.  He  is  the  piebald  drum- 
horse,  the  king  of  the  regimental  band,  that  served  the  regi- 
m.ent  for  seven-and-thirty  years,  and  in  the  end  was  shot  for 
old  age.  Half  the  mess  tore  the  thing  down  from  its  place 
and  thrust  it  into  the  man's  hands.  He  placed  it  above  the 
mantel- piece ;  it  clattered  on  the  ledge,  as  his  poor  hands 
dropped  it,  and  he  staggered  toward  the  bottom  of  the  table, 
falling  into  Mildred's  chair.  The  band  began  to  play  the 
"River  of  Years"  waltz,  and  the  laughter  from  the  gardens 
came  mto  the  tobacco-scented  mess-room.  But  nobody,  even 
the  youngest,  was  thinking  of  waltzes.  They  all  spoke  to 
one  another  something  after  this  fashion:  "The  drum-horse 
hasn't  hung  over  the  mantel-piece  since  '67,"  "How  does  he 
know?' '  ' '  Mildred,  go  and  speak  to  him  again. "  "  Colonel, 
what  are  you  going  to  do?"  "Oh,  dry  up,  and  give  the  poor 
devil  a  chance  to  pull  himself  together!"  "It  isn't  possible, 
anyhow.     The  man's  a  lunatic." 

Little  Mildred  stood  at  the  colonel's  side  talking  into  his 


^ 


161  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplii)^ 


ear.     "Will  you  be  good  enough  to  take  your  seats,  please, 
gentlemen?"  he  said,  and  the  mess  dropped  into  the  chairs. 

Only  Dirkovitch's  seat,  next  to  Little  Mildred's,  was 
blank,  and  Little  Mildred  himself  had  found  Hira  Singh's 
place.  The  wide-eyed  mess-sergeant  filled  the  glasses  in 
dead  silence.  Once  more  the  colonel  rose,  but  his  hand 
shook,  and  the  port  spilled  on  the  table  as  he  looked  straight 
at  the  man  in  Little  Mildred's  chair  and  said,  hoarsely:  "Mr. 
Vice,  the  Queen. ' '  There  was  a  little  pause,  but  the  man 
sprung  to  his  feet  and  answered,  without  hesitation:  "The 
Queen,  God  bless  her!"  and  as  he  emptied  the  thin  glass  he 
snapped  the  shank  between  his  fingers. 

Long  and  long  ago,  when  the  Empress  of  India  was  a 
young  woman,  and  there  were  no  unclean  ideals  in  the  land, 
it  was  the  custom  in  a  few  messes  to  drink  the  queen's  toast 
in  broken  glass,  to  the  huge  delight  of  the  mess  contractors. 
The  custom  is  now  dead,  because  there  is  nothing  to  break 
anything  for,  except  now  and  again  the  word  of  a  govern- 
ment, and  that  has  been  broken  already. 

"That  settles  it,"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  gasp.  "He's 
not  a  sergeant.     "What  in  the  world  is  he?" 

The  entire  mess  echoed  the  word,  and  the  volley  of 
questions  would  have  scared  any  man.  Small  wonder  that 
the  ragged,  filthy  invader  could  only  smile  and  shake  his 
head. 

From  under  the  table,  calm  and  smiling  urbanely,  rose 
Dirkovitch,  who  had  been  roused  from  healthful  slumber  by 
feet  upon  his  body.  By  the  side  of  the  man  he  rose,  and  the 
man  shrieked  and  groveled  at  his  feet.  It  was  a  horrible ' 
sight,  coming  so  swiftly  upon  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  toast 
that  had  brought  the  strayed  wits  together.  « 

Dirkovitch  made  no  offer  to  raise  him,  but  Little. Mildred  I 
heaved  him  up  in  an  instant.  It  is  not  good  that  a  gentle-  • 
man  who  can  answer  to  the  queen's  toast  should  lie  at  the  3 
feet  of  a  subaltern  of  Cossacks. 

The  hasty  action  tore  the  wretch's  upper  clothing  nearly 
to  the  waist,  and  his  body  was  seamed  with  dry  black  scars. 


TI?e  /I\ai?  U/I70  U/as  163 

There  is  only  one  weapon  in  the  world  that  cuts  in  parallel 
lines,  and  it  is  neither  the  cane  nor  the  cat.  Dirkovitch  saw 
the  marks,  and  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated — also,  his  face 
changed.  He  said  something  that  sounded  like  "Shto  ve 
takete";  and  the  man,  fawning,  answered,  *'Chetyre." 

"What's  that?"  said  everybody  together. 

' '  His  number.  That  is  number  four,  you  know. ' '  Dirko- 
vitch spoke  very  thickly. 

"What  has  a  queen's  oflScer  to  do  with  a  qualified  num- 
ber?" said  the  colonel,  and  there  rose  an  unpleasant  growl 
round  the  table. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  said  the  affable  Oriental,  with  a  sweet 
smile.  "He  is  a — how  you  have  it? — escape — runaway,  from 
over  there." 

He  nodded  toward  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

"Speak  to  him,  if  he'll  answer  you,  and  speak  to  him 
gently, ' '  said  Little  Mildred,  settling  the  man  in  a  chair.  It 
seemed  most  improper  to  all  present  that  Dirkovitch  should 
sip  brandy  as  he  talked  in  purring,  spitting  Russian  to  the 
creature  who  answered  so  feebly  and  with  such  evident 
dread.  But  since  Dirkovitch  appeared  to  understand,  no 
man  said  a  word.  They  breathed  heavily,  leaning  forward 
in  the  long  gaps  of  the  conversation.  The  next  time  that 
they  have  no  engagements  on  hand  the  White  Hussars  intend 
to  go  to  St.  Petersburg  and  learn  Russian. 

"He  does  not  know  how  many  years  ago,"  said  Dirko- 
vitch, facing  the  mess,  "but  he  says  it  was  very  long  ago,  in 
a  war.  I  think  that  there  was  an  accident.  He  says  he  was 
of  this  glorious  and  distinguished  regiment  in  the  war." 

"The  rolls!  The  rolls!  Holmer,  get  the  rolls!"  said 
Little  Mildred,  and  the  adjutant  dashed  off  bareheaded  to 
the  orderly-room  where  the  rolls  of  the  regiment  were  kept. 
He  returned  just  in  time  to  hear  Dirkovitch  conclude; 
"Therefore  I  am  most  sorry  to  say  there  was  an  accident, 
which  would  have  been  reparable  if  he  had  apologized  to 
that  our  colonel,  which  he  had  insulted. ' ' 

Another  growl,  which  the  colonel  tried  to  beat  down. 


164  U/orl^s  of  r^adyard  l^iplip^ 

The  mess  was  in  no  mood  to  weigh  insults  to  Russian  colonels 
just  then. 

"He  does  not  remember,  but  I  think  that  there  was  an 
accident,  and  so  he  was  not  exchanged  among  the  prisoners, 
but  he  was  sent  to  another  place—how  do  you  say?-— the 
country.  So^  he  says,  he  came  here.  He  does  not  know 
how  he  came.  Eh?  He  was  at  Chepany"— the  man  caught 
the  word,  nodded,  and  shivered— ^' at  Zhigansk  and  Irkutsk. 
I  cannot  understand  how  he  escaped.  He  says,  too,  that  he 
was  in  the  forests  for  many  years,  but  how  many  years  he 
has  forgotten — that  with  many  things.  It  was  an  accident; 
done  because  he  did  not  apologize  to  that  our  colonel.     Ah!" 

Instead  of  echoing  Dirkovitch's  sigh  of  regret,  it  is  sad  to 
record  that  the  White  Hussars  livelily  exhibited  unchristian 
delight  and  other  emotions,  hardly  restrained  by  their  sense 
of  hospitality.  Holmei  flung  the  frayed  and  yellow  regi- 
mental rolls  on  the  table,  and  the  men  flung  themselves  atop 
of  these. 

* '  Steady !  Fif ty-six—fif ty-five  —fifty-four, ' '  said  Holmer. 
^'Here  we  are.  'Lieutenant  Austin  Limmason — missing.^ 
That  was  before  Sebastopol.  What  an  infernal  shame !  In- 
sulted one  of  their  colonels,  and  was  quietly  shipped  off. 
Thirty  years  of  his  life  wiped  out.** 

"But  he  never  apologized.     Said  he'd  see  him first," 

chorused  the  mess. 

"Poor  devil!  I  suppose  he  never  had  the  chance  after- 
ward.    How  did  he  come  here?''  said  the  colonel. 

The  dingy  heap  in  the  chair  could  give  no  answer, 

"Do  you  know  who  you  are?'* 

It  laughed  weakly. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  Limmason — Lieutenant 
Limmason,  of  the  White  Hussars?" 

Swift  as  a  shot  came  the  answer,  in  a  slightly  surprised 
tone:  "Yes,  I'm  Limmason,  of  course."  The  light  died  out 
in  his  eyes,  and  he  collapsed  afresh,  watching  every  motion 
of  Dirkovitch  with  terror,  A  flight  from  Siberia  may  fix  a 
few  elementary  facts  in  the  mind,  but  it  does  not  lead  to 


J\)e  /I\ai>  W\)0  U/as  165 

continuity  of  thought.  The  man  could  not  explain  how.  like 
a  homing  pigeon,  he  had  found  his  way  to  his  own  old  mess 
again.  Of  what  he  had  suffered  or  seen  he  knew  nothing. 
He  cringed  before  Dirkovitch  as  instinctively  as  he  had 
pressed  the  spring  of  the  candlestick,  sought  the  picture  of 
the  drum-horse,  and  answered  to  the  queen's  toast.  The 
rest  was  a  blank  that  the  dreaded  Russian  tongue  could 
only  in  part  remove.  His  head  bowed  on  his  breast,  and 
he  giggled  and  cowered  alternately. 

The  devil  that  lived  in  the  brandy  prompted  Dirkovitch 
at  this  extremely  inopportune  moment  to  make  a  speech.  He 
rose,  swaying  slightly,  gripped  the  table-edge,  while  his  eyes 
glowed  like  opals,  and  began : 

**  Fellow -soldiers  glorious — true  friends  and  hospitables. 
It  was  an  accident,  and  deplorable — most  deplorable  "  Here 
he  smiled  sweetly  all  round  the  mess.  "But  you  will  think 
of  this  little — little  thing.  So  little,  is  it  not?  The  czar! 
Posh !  I  slap  my  fingers — I  snap  my  fingers  at  him.  Do  I 
believe  in  him?  ISTo !  But  the  Slav  who "  has  done  nothing, 
him  I  believe.  Seventy — how  much? — millions  that  have 
done  nothing — not  one  thing.  Napoleon  was  an  episode." 
He  banged  a  hand  on  the  table.  *'Hear  you,  old  peoples,  we 
have  done  nothing  in  the  world— out  here.  All  our  work  is 
to  do:  and  it  shall  be  done,  old  peoples.  Get  away!"  He 
waved  his  hand  imperiously,  and  pointed  to  the  man.  ''You 
see  him.  He  is  not  good  to  see.  He  was  just  one  little — oh, 
so  little — accident,  that  no  one  remembered.  lN"ow  he  is  That. 
So  will  you  be,  brother-soldiers  so  brave — so  will  you  be. 
But  you  will  never  come  back.  You  will  all  go  where  he  is 
gone,  or—"  he  pointed  to  the  great  coffin  shadow  on  the 
ceiling,  and  muttering,  "Seventy  millions — get  away,  you 
old  people,"  fell  asleep. 

"Sweet,  and  to  the  point,"  said  Little  Mildred.  "What's 
the  use  of  getting  wroth?  Let's  make  the  poor  devil  com- 
fortable." 

But  that  was  a  matter  suddenly  and  swiftly  taken  from 
the  loving  hands  of  the  White  Hussars.     The  lieutenant  had 


166  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

returned  only  to  go  away  again  three  days  later,  when  the 
wail  of  the  *'Dead  March"  and  the  tramp  of  the  squadrons 
told  the  wondering  station,  that  saw  no  gap  in  the  table,  an 
officer  of  the  regiment  had  resigned  his  new-found  commission. 

And  Dirkovitch — bland,  supple,  and  always  genial — ^went 
away  too  hj  a  night  train.  Little  Mildred  and  another  saw 
him  off,  for  he  was  the  guest  of  the  mess,  and  even  had  he 
smitten  the  colonel  with  the  open  hand,  the  law  of  the  mess 
allowed  no  relaxation  of  hospitality. 

*'Good-by,  Dirkovitch,  and  a  pleasant  joumeyj"  said 
Little  Mildred. 

^^Au  revoir,  my  true  friends,^'  said  the  Russian. 

** Indeed!     But  we  thought  you  were  going  home?" 

*'Yes;  but  I  will  come  again.  My  friends,  is  that  road 
shut?"  He  pointed  to  where  the  north  star  burned  over  the 
Khyber  Pass. 

^' By  Jove!  I  forgot.  Of  course.  Happy  to  meet  you, 
old  man,  any  time  you  like.  Got  everything  you  want — 
cheroots,  ice,  bedding?  That's  all  right.  Well,  au  revoir^ 
Dirkovitch.'^ 

*'Um,"  said  the  other  man,  as  the  tail-lights  of  the  train 
grew  small.     **0f — all— the — unmitigated—-" 

Little  Mildred  answered  nothing,  but  watched  the  north 
star,  and  hummed  a  selection  from  a  recent  burlesque  that 
had  much  deHghted  the  White  Hussars.     It  ran : 

**I'm  sorry  for  Mr.  Bluebeard, 
I'm  sorry  to  cause  him  pain; 
But  a  terrible  spree  there's  sure  to  be 
When  he  comes  back  again." 


A   CONFERENCE   OF  THE   POWERS 

"Life  liveth  best  in  life,  and  doth  not  roam 
To  other  realms  if  all  be  well  at  home. 
'Solid  as  ocean  foam,'  quoth  ocean  foam." 

The  roora  was  blue  with  the  smoke  of  three  pipes  and  a 
cigar.  The  leave  season  had  opened  in  India,  and  the  first- 
fruits  on  the  English  side  of  the  water  were  "Tick"  Boileau, 
of  the  Forty-fifth  Bengal  Cavalry,  who  called  on  me  after 
three  years'  absence  to  discuss  old  things  which  had  hap- 
pened. Fate,  who  always  does  her  work  handsomely,  sent 
up  the  same  staircase  within  the  same  hour  the  Infant,  fresh 
from  Upper  Burmah,  and  he  and  Boileau,  looking  out  of  my 
window,  saw  walking  in  the  street  one  Kevin,  late  in  a 
Goorkha  regiment  and  the  Black  Mountain  expedition. 
They  yelled  to  him  to  come  up,  and  the  whole  street  was 
aware  that  they  desired  him  to  come  up;  and  he  came  up, 
and  there  foUov/ed  pandemonium,  because  we  had  fore- 
gathered from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  three  of  us  were  on 
a  holiday,  and  none  of  us  was  twenty-five,  and  all  the  delights 
of  all  London  lay  waiting  our  pleasure. 

Boileau  took  the  only  other  chair;  and  the  Infant,  by 
right  of  his  bulk,  the  sofa ;  and  N"evin,  being  a  little  man,  sat 
cross-legged  on  the  top  of  the  revolving  bookcase ;  and  we 
all  said:  *' Who'd  ha'  thought  it?"  and  "What  are  you  doing 
here?' '  till  speculation  was  exhausted,  and  the  talk  went  over 
to  inevitable  "shop."  Boileau  was  full  of  a  great  scheme 
for  securing  military  attacheship  at  St.  Petersburg;  Nevin 
had  hopes  of  the  Staff  College;  and  the  Infant  had  been 
moving  heaven  and  earth  and  the  Horse  Guards  for  a  com- 
mission in  the  Egyptian  army. 

"What's  the  use  o'  that?"  said  Nevin,  twirling  round  on 
the  bookcase. 

"Oh,  heaps!     Course  if  you  get  stuck  with  a  Fellaheen 

(167) 


168  U/or^s  of  r^adyard  l^iplii)^ 

regiment,  you're  sold;  but  if  you  are  appointed  to  a  Sou- 
danese lot,  you're  in  clover.  They  are  first-class  fighting 
men,  and  just  think  of  the  eligible  central  position  of  Egypt 
in  the  next  row ! ' ' 

This  was  putting  the  match  to  a  magazine.  We  all  began 
to  explain  the  Central- Asian  question  off-hand,  flinging  army 
corps  from  the  Helmund  to  Cashmir  with  more  than  Russian 
recklessness.  Each  of  the  boys  made  for  himself  a  war  to 
his  own  liking,  and  when  we  had  settled  all  the  details  of 
Armageddon,  killed  all  our  senior  officers,  handled  a  division 
apiece,  and  nearly  torn  the  atlas  in  two  in  attempts  to  explain 
our  theories,  Boileau  needs  must  lift  up  his  voice  above  the 

clamor  and  cry:  "Anyhow,  it'll  be  the  ^ of  a  row!"  in 

tones  that  carried  conviction  far  down  the  staircase. 

Entered  unperceived  in  the  smoke  "William  the  Silent. 
^'Gen'leman  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  he,  and  disappeared,  leav- 
ing in  his  stead  none  other  than  Mr.  Eustace  Cleever.  Wil- 
liam would  have  introduced  the  dragon  of  Wantley  with 
equal  disregard  of  present  company. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon!  I  didn't  know  that  there  was 
anybody — with  you.     I—" 

But  it  was  not  seemly  to  allow  Mr.  Cleever  to  depart,  for 
he  was  a  great  man.  The  boys  remained  where  the}^  were, 
because  any  movement  would  block  the  little  room.  Only 
when  they  saw  his  gray  hairs  they  stood  up  on  their  feet,  and 
when  the  Infant  caught  the  name,  he  said:  *^Are  you — did 
you  write  that  book  called  *  As  it  was  in  the  Beginning'?" 

Mr.  Cleever  admitted  that  he  had  written  the  book. 

"Then— then  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  sir,"  said 
the  Infant,  flushing  pink.  "I  was  brought  up  in  the  country 
you  wrote  about.  All  my  people  live  there,  and  I  read  the 
book  in  camp  out  in  Burmah  on  the  Hlinedatalon^j  and  I 
knew  every  stick  and  stone,  and  the  dialect,  too;  and,  by 
Jove !  it  was  just  like  being  at  home  and  hearing  the  country 
people  talk.  ITevin,  you  know  'As  it  was  in  the  Beginning'? 
So  does  Ti — Boileau." 

Mr.  Cleever  has  tasted  as  much  praise,  public  and  private, 


f{  ^opferei^ee  of  tl?e  pou/ers  169 

as  one  man  may  safely  swallow,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
outspoken  admiration  in  the  Infant's  eyes  and  the  little  stir 
in  the  little  company  came  home  to  him  very  nearly  indeed. 

"Won't  you  take  the  sofa?"  said  the  Infant.  *'I'U  sit  on 
Boileau's  chair,  and—"  Here  he  looked  at  me  to  spur  me 
to  my  duties  as  a  host,  but  I  was  watching  the  novehst's  face. 
Cleever  had  not  the  least  intention  of  going  aw^ay,  but  settled 
himseK  on  the  sofa.  Following  the  -first  great  law  of  the 
army,  which  says:  "All  property  is  common  except  money > 
and  yonVe  only  got  to  ask  the  next  man  for  that/'  the 
Infant  offered  tobacco  and  drink.  It  was  the  least  he  could 
do.  but  not  four  columns  of  the  finest  review  in  the  world 
held  half  as  much  appreciation  and  reverence  as  the  Infant's 
simple:  "Say  when,  sir,"  above  the  long  glass. 

Cleever  said  "when,"'  and  more  thereto,  for  he  was  a 
golden  talker,  and  he  sat  in  the  midst  of  hero-worship  devoid 
of  all  taint  of  self-interest.  The  boys  asked  him  of  the  birth 
of  his  book,  and  whether  it  was  hard  to  write,  and  how  his 
notions  came  to  him,  and  he  answered  with  the  same  absolute 
simplicity  as  he  was  questioned.  His  big  eyes  twinkled,  he 
dug  his  long,  thin  hands  into  his  gray  beard,  and  tugged  it 
as  he  grew  animated  and  dropped  little  by  little  from  the 
peculiar  pinching  of  the  broader  vowels — the  indefinable 
"euh"  that  runs  through  the  speech  of  the  pundit  caste — and 
the  elaborate  choice  of  words  to  freely  mouthed  ows  and  ois, 
and  for  him,  at  least,  unfettered  colloquialisms.  He  could 
not  altogether  understand  the  boys  who  hung  upon  his  words 
so  reverently.  The  line  of  the  chin-strap  that  stiU  showed 
white  and  untanned  on  cheek-bone  and  jaw,  the  steadfast 
young  eyes  puckered  at  the  corners  of  the  lids  with  much 
staring  through  red-hot  sunshine,  the  deep,  troubled  breath- 
ing, and  the  curious  crisp,  curt  speech  seemed  to  puzzle  him. 
equally.  He  could  create  men  and  women,  and  send  them  to 
the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  to  help,  delight,  and  comfort ; 
he  knew  every  mood  of  the  fields,  and  could  interpret  them 
to  the  cities,  and  he  knew  the  hearts  of  many  in  the  city  and 
country,  but  he  had  hardly  in  forty  years  come  into  contact 
Vol.  3.  8 


170  U/orKs  of  l^udyard  l^iplfr?^ 

witli  the  thing  which  is  called  a  Subaltern  oi  the  Line.     He 
told  the  boys  this. 

*'Well,  how  should  you?"  said  the  Infant.  **  You — you're 
quite  different,  y'  see,  sir." 

The  Infant  expressed  his  ideas  in  his  tone  rather  than  his 
words,  and  Cleever  understood  the  compliments. 

'*  We're  only  subs,"  said  Nevin,  "and  we  aren't  exactly 
the  sort  of  men  you'd  meet  much  in  your  Hfe,  I  s'pose." 

"That's  true,"  said  Cleever.  "I  live  chiefly  among  those 
who  write  and  paint  and  sculp  and  so  forth.  We  have  our 
own  talk  and  our  own  interests,  and  the  outer  world  doesn't 
trouble  us  much. ' ' 

"That  must  be  awf'ly  jolly,"  said  Boileau,  at  a  venture. 
"We  have  our  own  shop  too,  but  'tisn't  half  as  interesting  as 
yours,  of  course.  You  know  all  the  men  who've  ever  done 
anything,  and  we  only  knock  about  from  place  to  place,  and 
we  do  nothing. ' ' 

"The  army's  a  very  lazy  profession,  if  you  choose  to 
make  it  so,"  said  Nevin.  "When  there's  nothing  going  on, 
there  is  nothing  going  on,  and  you  lie  up. ' ' 

* '  Or  try  to  get  a  billet  somewhere  so  as  to  be  ready  for  the 
next  show,"  said  the  Infant,  with  a  chuckle. 

"To  me,"  said  Cleever,  softly,  "the  whole  idea  of  warfare 
seems  so  foreign  and  unnatural — so  essentially  vulgar,  if  I 
may  say  so — that  I  can  hardly  appreciate  your  sensations  „ 
Of  course,  though,  any  change  from  idling  in  garrison  towns 
must  be  a  godsend  to  you." 

Like  not  a  few  home-staying  Englishmen,  Cleever  beheved 
that  the  newspaper  phrase  he  quoted  covered  the  whole  duty 
of  the  army,  whose  toil  enabled  him  to  enjoy  his  many-sided 
life  in  peace.  The  remark  was  not  a  happy  one,  for  Boileau 
had  just  come  off  the  Indian  frontier,  the  Infant  had  been  on 
the  warpath  for  nearly  eighteen  months,  and  the  little  red 
man,  Nevin,  two  months  before  had  been  sleeping  under  the 
stars  at  the  peril  of  his  life.  But  none  of  them  tried  to  ex- 
plain till  I  ventured  to  point  out  that  they  had  all  seen  service, 
and  were  not  used  to  idling.     Cleever  took  in  the  idea  slowly. 


fi  ^opferepee  of  tl^e  pou/ers  171 

**Seen  service?"  said  he.  Then,  as  a  child  might  ask, 
**Tell  me— tell  me  everything  about  everything." 

*'How  do  you  mean,  sir?"  said  the  Infant,  delighted  at 
being  directly  appealed  to  by  the  great  man. 

' '  Good  heavens !  how  am  I  to  make  you  understand  if  you 
can't  see?    In  the  first  place,  what  is  your  age?" 

*' Twenty-three  next  July,"  said  the  Infant,  promptly, 

Cleever  questioned  the  others  with  his  eyes. 

*'I'm  twenty-four,"  said  !N"evin. 

**I'm  twenty-two,"  said  Boileau. 

**And  you've  all  seen  service?" 

**  We've  all  knocked  about  a  little  bit,  sir,  but  the  Infant's 
the  war-worn  veteran.  He's  had  two  years'  work  in  Upper 
Burmah,"  said  ITevin. 

"When  you  say  work,  what  do  you  mean,  you  extraor- 
dinary creatures?" 

"Explain  it.  Infant,"  said  ]N"evin. 

"Oh,  keeping  things  in  order  generally,  and  running 
about  after  little  dahus — that's  Dacoits— and  so  on.  There's 
nothing  to  explain." 

"Make  that  young  leviathan  speak,"  said  Cleever,  im- 
patiently. 

"How  can  he  speak?"  said  I.  "He's  done  the  work. 
The  two  don't  go  together.  But,  Infant,  you  are  requested 
to  hukh.''^ 

"What  about?    I'll  try." 

'^Bukh  about  a  daur.  You've  been  on  heaps  of  'em," 
said  ITevin. 

"What  in  the  world  does  that  mean?  Has  the  army  a 
language  of  its  own?" 

The  Infant  turned  very  red.  He  was  afraid  he  was  being 
laughed  at,  and  he  detested  talking  before  outsiders ;  but  it 
was  the  author  of  "As  it  was  in  the  Beginning"  who  waited. 

"It's  all  so  new  to  me,"  pleaded  Cleever.  "And — and 
you  said  you  liked  my  book." 

This  was  a  direct  appeal  that  the  Infant  could  under- 
stand.    He  began,  rather  flurriedly,  with  "Pull  me  up,  sir^ 


172  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

if  I  say  anything  you  don't  follow.  'Bout  six  months  before 
I  took  my  leave  out  of  Burmah  I  was  on  the  Hlinedatalone 
up  near  the  Shan  states  with  sixty  Tommies — private  sol- 
diers, that  is — and  another  subaltern,  a  year  senior  to  me. 
The  Burmese  business  was  a  subaltern  war,  and  our  forces 
were  split  up  into  little  detachments,  all  running  about  the 
country  and  trying  to  keep  the  Dacoits  quiet.  The  Dacoits 
were  having  a  first-class  time,  y'  know — filling  women  up 
with  kerosene  and  setting  'em  alight,  and  burning  villages, 
and  crucifying  people. " 

The  wonder  in  Eustace  Cleever's  eyes  deepened.  He 
disbelieved  wholly  in  a  book  which  describes  crucifixion  at 
length,  and  he  could  not  quite  realize  that  the  custom  still 
existed. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  crucifixion?"  said  he. 

"Of  course  not.  Shouldn't  have  allowed  it  if  I  had. 
But  I've  seen  the  corpses.  The  Dacoits  had  a  nice  trick  of 
sending  a  crucified  corpse  down  the  river  on  a  raft,  just  to 
show  they  were  keeping  their  tail  up  and  enjoying  them- 
selves. Well,  that  was  the  kind  of  people  I  had  to  deal 
with." 

"Alone?"  said  Cleever.  Solitude  of  the  soul  he  knew — 
none  better ;  but  he  had  never  been  ten  miles  away  from  his 
fellowmen  in  his  life. 

"I  had  my  men,  but  the  rest  of  it  was  pretty  much  alone. 
The  nearest  military  post  that  could  give  me  orders  was  fif- 
teen miles  away,  and  we  used  to  heliograph  to  them,  and 
they  used  to  give  us  orders  same  way.     Too  many  orders." 

"Who  was  your  C.  O.?"  said  Boileau. 

"Bounderby.  Major.  Pukka  Bounderby.  More  Boun- 
der than  pukka.  He  went  out  up  Bhamo  way.  Shot  or  cut 
down  last  year,"  said  the  Infant. 

"What  mean  these  interludes  in  a  strange  tongue?"  said 
Cleever  to  me. 

"Professional  information,  like  the  Mississippi  pilots'  talk. 
He  did  not  approve  of  his  major,  who  has  since  died  a  violent 
death,"  said  I.     "Go  on,  Infant." 


f\  ^oi)ferei}Qe  of  tl?e  pou/ers  173 

"Far  too  many  orders.  You  couldn't  take  the  Tommies 
out  for  a  two-days'  daur — that  means  expedition,  sir — ^with* 
out  being  blown  up  for  not  asking  leave.  And  the  whole 
country  was  humming  with  Dacoits.  I  used  to  send  out 
spies  and  act  on  their  information.  As  soon  as  a  man  came 
in  and  told  me  of  a  gang  in  hiding,  I'd  take  thirty  men,  with 
some  grub,  and  go  out  and  look  for  them,  while  the  other 
subaltern  lay  doggo  in  camp." 

"Lay?    Pardon  me,  but  how  did  he  lie?"  said  Cleever, 

"Lay  doggo.  Lay  quiet  with  the  other  thirty  men. 
"When  I  came  back,  he'd  take  out  his  half  of  the  command^ 
and  have  a  good  time  of  his  own." 

"  Who  was  he?"  said  Boileau, 

"Carter-Deecy,  of  the  Aurangabadis.  Good  chap^  but 
too  zuhberdiisty,  and  went  hokJiar  four  days  out  of  seveiL 
He's  gone  out  too.     Don't  interrupt  a  man." 

Cleever  looked  helplessly  at  me. 

"The  other  subaltern, "  I  translate,  swiftly^  **came  from 
a  native  regiment  and  was  overbearing  in  his  demeanor.  He 
suffered  much  from  the  fever  of  the  country,  and  is  now 
dead.     Go  on,  Infant." 

"After  a  bit  we  got  into  trouble  for  using  the  raen  o£ 
frivolous  occasions,  and  so  I  used  to  put  my  signaler  under 
arrest  to  prevent  him  reading  the  helio  orders.  Then  I'd  go 
out,  and  leave  a  message  to  be  sent  an  hour  after  I  got  clear 
of  the  camp;  something  Hke  this:  'Received  important  in* 
formation;  start  in  an  hour,  unless  countermanded.'  If  I 
was  ordered  back,  it  didn't  much  matter.  I  swore  that  the 
0.  O.'s  watch  was  wrong,  or  something,  when  I  came  back. 
The  Tommies  enjoyed  the  fun,  and^ — oh,  yes— there  was  one 
Tommy  who  was  the  bard  of  the  detachment.  He  used  t© 
make  up  verses  on  everything  that  happened.'* 

"What  sort  of  verses?"    said  Cleever. 

"Lovely  verses;  and  the  Tommies  used  to  sing  'em* 
There  was  one  song  with  a  chorus,  and  it  said  something 
like  this."  The  Infant  dropped  into  the  barrack-rocMH 
twang : 


174  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplfp^ 

"  'Theebau,  the  Burmali  king,  did  a  very  foolish  thing 
"When  'e  mustered  'ostile  forces  in  ar-rai. 
'E  Httul  thought  that  we,  from  far  across  the  sea, 
Would  send  our  armies  up  to  Mandaiai!'  " 

*'0h,  gorgeous!"  said  Cleever.  ''And  how  magnificently 
direct!  The  notion  of  a  regimental  bard  is  new  to  me.  It's 
epic." 

"He  was  awf'ly  popular  with  the  men,"  said  the  Infant. 
**He  had  them  all  down  in  rhyme  as  soon  as  ever  they  had 
done  anything.  He  was  a  great  bard.  He  was  always  on 
time  with  a  eulogy  when  we  picked  up  a  Boh— that's  a 
leader  of  Dacoits." 

"How  did  you  pick  him  up?"  said  Cleever. 

"Oh,  shot  him  if  he  wouldn't  surrender." 

"You!     Have  you  shot  a  man?" 

There  was  a  subdued  chuckle  from  all  three,  and  it  dawned 
on  the  questioner  that  one  experience  in  life  which  was  denied 
to  himself— and  he  weighed  the  souls  of  men  in  a  balance- 
had  been  shared  by  three  very  young  gentlemen  of  engaging 
appearance.  He  turned  round  on  ITevin,  who  had  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  bookcase  and  was  sitting  cross-legged  as 
before. 

"And  have  you,  too?" 

"Think  so,"  said  Nevin,  sweetly.  "In  the  Black  Moun- 
tain, sir.  He  was  rolling  cliffs  on  to  my  half-company  and 
spoiling  our  formation.  I  took  a  rifle  from  a  man  and 
brought  him  down  at  the  second  shot?' 

"Good  heavens!     And  how  did  you  feel  afterward?" 

"Thirsty.     I  wanted  a  smoke,  too." 

Cleever  looked  at  Boileau,  the  youngest.  Surely  his 
hands  were  guiltless  of  blood.  Boileau  shook  his  head  and 
laughed.     **Go  on.  Infant,"  said  he. 

"And  you,  too?"  said  Cleever. 

"Fancy  so.  It  was  a  case  of  cut — cut  or  be  cut — with 
me,  so  I  cut  at  one.  I  couldn't  do  any  more,  sir,"  said 
Boileau. 

Cleever  looked  as  though  he  would  like  to  ask  many 


f{  <?opferei?Ge  of  tl?e  pou/ers  175 

questions,  but  the  Infant  swept  on  in  the  full  tide  of 
his  tale. 

'*Well,  we  were  called  insubordinate  young  whelps  at 
last,  and  strictly  forbidden  to  take  the  Tommies  out  any 
more  without  orders.  I  wasn't  sorry,  because  Tommy  is 
such  an  exacting  sort  of  creature,  though  he  works  beauti- 
fully. He  wants  to  live  as  though  he  were  in  barracks  all 
the  time.  I  was  grubbing  on  fowls  and  boiled  corn,  but  the 
Tommies  wanted  their  pound  of  fresh  meat,  and  their  half 
ounce  of  this,  and  their  two  ounces  of  t'other  thing,  and  they 
used  to  come  to  me  and  badger  me  for  plug  tobacco  when  we 
were  four  days  in  jungle!  I  said:  'I  can  get  you  Burmah 
tobacco,  but  I  don't  keep  a  canteen  up  my  sleeve. '  They 
couldn't  see  it.  They  wanted  all  the  luxuries  of  the  season, 
confound  'em!" 

"You  were  alone  when  you  were  dealing  with  these 
men?"  said  Cleever,  watching  the  Infant's  face  under  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  He  was  receiving  new  ideas,  and  they 
seemed  to  trouble  him. 

"Of  course.  Unless  you  count  the  mosquitoes.  They 
were  nearly  as  big  as  the  men.  After  I  had  to  lie  doggo  I 
began  to  look  for  something  to  do,  and  I  was  great  pals  with 
a  man  called  Hicksey,  in  the  Burmah  police — the  best  man 
that  ever  stepped  on  earth ;  a  first-class  man. ' ' 

Cleever  nodded  applause.  He  knew  something  of  enthu- 
siasm. 

"Hicksey  and  I  were  as  thick  as  thieves.  He  had  some 
Burmah  mounted  police — nippy  little  chaps,  armed  with 
sword  and  Snider  carbine.  They  rode  punchy  Burmah 
ponies,  with  string  stirrups,  red  cloth  saddles,  and  red  bell- 
rope  headstalls.  Hicksey  used  to  lend  me  six  or  eight  of 
them  when  I  asked  him — nippy  little  devils,  keen  as  mus- 
tard. But  they  told  their  wives  too  much,  and  all  my  plans 
got  known,  till  I  learned  to  give  false  marching  orders  over- 
night, and  take  the  men  to  quite  a  different  village  in  the 
morning.  Then  we  used  to  catch  the  simple  dakus  before 
breakfast,  and  make  them  very  sick.     It's  a  ghastly  country 


176  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii?<$ 

on  the  Hlinedatalone ;  all  bamboo  jungle,  with  paths  about 
four  feet  wide  winding  through  it.  The  dakus  knew  all  the 
paths,  and  used  to  pot  at  us  as  we  came  round  a  corner ;  but 
the  mounted  police  knew  the  paths  as  well  as  the  dakus,  and 
we  used  to  go  stalking  'em  in  and  out  among  the  paths. 
Once  we  flushed  'em^ — the  men  on  the  ponies  had  the  pull  of 
the  man  on  foot.  We  held  all  the  coTintry  absolutely  quiet 
for  ten  miles  round  in  about  a  month.  Then  we  took  Boh 
Na-ghee — Hicksey  and  I  and  the  civil  officer.  That  was  a 
lark!" 

"I  think  I  am  beginning  to  understand  a  little,"  said 
Cleever.  ' '  It  was  a  pleasure  to  you  to  administer  and  fight, 
and  so  on." 

"Rather.  There's  nothing  nicer  than  a  satisfactory  little 
expedition,  when  you  find  all  your  plans  fit  together  and 
your  conformations  teek — correct,  you  know — and  the  whole 
suhchiz — I  mean  when  everything  works  out  like  formulas 
on  a  blackboard.  Hicksey  had  all  the  information  about  the 
Boh,  He  had  been  burning  villages  and  murdering  people 
right  and  left,  and  cutting  up  government  convoys,  and  all 
that.  He  was  lying  doggo  in  a  village  about  fifteen  miles 
off,  waiting  to  get  a  fresh  gang  together.  So  we  arranged 
to  take  thirty  mounted  police,  and  turn  him  out  before  he 
could  plunder  into  the  newly  settled  villages.  At  the  last 
minute  the  civil  officer  in  our  part  of  the  world  thought  he'd 
assist  in  the  performance." 

**Who  was  he?"  said  Nevin. 

"His  name  was  Dennis,"  said  the  Infant,  slowly;  "an J 
we'll  let  it  stay  so.  He's  a  better  man  now  than  he  was 
then." 

"But  how  old  was  the  civil  power?"  said  Cleever.  "Tho 
situation  is  developing  itself."  Then,  in  his  beard;  "Who 
are  you,  to  judge  men?" 

"He  was  about  six-and-twenty, "  said  the  Infant;  "and 
he  was  awf 'ly  clever.  He  knew  a  lot  of  literary  things,  but 
I  don't  think  he  was  quite  steady  enough  for  Dacoit-hunting. 
We  started  overnight  for  Boh  !N"a-ghee's  village,  and  we  got 


f{  <$oi?ferer>ee  of  tl?e  povuers  177 

there  just  before  the  morning,  without  raising  an  alarm. 
Dennis  had  turned  out  armed  to  the  teeth — two  revolvers, 
a  carbine,  and  all  sorts  of  things.  I  was  talking  to  Hicksey 
about  posting  our  men,  and  Dennis  edged  his  pony  in  be- 
tween us,  and  said:  'What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do? 
Tell  me  what  to  do,  you  fellows.'  We  didn't  take  much 
notice,  but  his  pony  tried  to  bite  me  in  the  leg,  and  I  said : 
*  Pull  out  a  bit,  old  man,  till  we've  settled  the  attack.'  He 
kept  edging  in,  and  fiddling  with  his  reins  and  the  revolvers, 
and  saying:  'Dear  me!  dear  me!  Oh,  dear  me!  What  do 
you  think  I'd  better  do?'  The  man  was  in  a  blue  funk  and 
his  teeth  were  chattering." 

' '  I  sympathize  with  the  civil  power, ' '  said  Cleever.  ' '  Con- 
tinue, young  Olive." 

"The  fun  of  it  was  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  our  supe- 
rior officer.  Hicksey  took  a  good  look  at  him,  and  told  him 
to  attach  himself  to  my  party.  Beastly  mean  of  Hicksey, 
that.  The  chap  kept  on  edging  in  and  bothering,  instead  of 
asking  for  some  men  and  taking  up  his  own  position,  till  I 
got  angry.  The  carbines  began  popping  on  the  other  side  of 
the  village.  Then  I  said:  'For  God's  sake,  be  quiet,  and  sit 
down  where  you  are !  If  you  see  anybody  come  out  of  the 
village,  shoot  at  him. '  I  knew  he  couldn't  hit  a  hayrick  at 
a  yard.  Then  I  took  my  men  over  the  garden  wall — over 
the  palisades,  y'know — somehow  or  other,  and  the  fun  be- 
gan. Hicksey  had  found  the  Boh  in  bed  under  a  mosquito 
curtain,  and  he  had  taken  a  flying  jump  on  to  him." 

"A  flying  jump!"  said  Oleever.     "Is  that  also  war?" 

' '  Yes, ' '  said  the  Infant,  now  thoroughly  warmed.  ' '  Don' t 
you  know  how  you  take  a  flying  jump  on  to  a  fellow's  head 
at  school  when  he  snores  in  the  dormitor?  The  Boh  was 
sleeping  in  a  regular  bedful  of  swords  and  pistols,  and  Hick- 
sey came  down  a  la  Zazel  through  the  netting,  and  the  net 
got  mixed  up  with  the  pistols  and  the  Boh  and  Hicksey,  and 
they  all  rolled  on  the  floor  together.  I  laughed  till  I  couldn't 
stand,  and  Hicksey  was  cursing  me  for  not  helping  him,  so  I 
left  him  to  fight  it  out,  and  went  into  the  village.     Our  men 


178  U/orl^s  of  r^adyard  1t{ipUT)<^ 

were  slashing  about  and  firing,  and  so  were  the  Dacoits,  and 
in  the  thick  of  the  mess  some  ass  set  fire  to  a  house,  and  we 
all  had  to  clear  out.  I  froze  on  to  the  nearest  daku  and  ran 
to  the  palisade,  shoving  him  in  front  of  me.  He  wriggled 
clear  and  bounded  over  to  the  other  side.  I  came  after  him, 
but  when  I  had  one  leg  one  side  and  one  leg  the  other  of  the 
palisade,  I  saw  that  my  friend  had  fallen  flat  on  Dennis's 
head.  That  man  had  never  moved  from  where  I  left  him. 
The  two  rolled  on  the  ground  together,  and  Dennis's  carbine 
v,^ent  off  and  nearly  shot  me.  The  daku  picked  himself  up 
and  ran,  and  Dennis  heaved  his  carbine  after  him,  and  it 
caught  him  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  knocked  him  silly. 
You  never  saw  anything  so  funny  in  your  life.  I  doubled 
up  on  the  top  of  the  palisade  and  hung  there,  yelling  with 
laughter.  But  Dennis  began  to  weep  like  anything.  *0h, 
I've  killed  a  man!'  he  said^'I've  killed  a  man,  and  I  shall 
never  know  another  peaceful  hour  in  my  life !  Is  he  dead? 
Oh,  is  he  dead?  Good  God!  I've  killed  a  man!'  I  came 
down  and  said:  *  Don't  be  a  fool!'  But  he  kept  on  shouting 
'Is  he  dead?'  till  I  could  have  kicked  him.  The  daku  was 
only  knocked  out  of  time  with  the  carbine.  He  came  to 
after  a  bit,  and  I  said:  *Are  you  hurt  much?'  He  grinned 
and  said  no.  His  chest  was  all  cut  with  scrambling  over 
the  palisade.  'The  white  man's  gun  didn't  do  that,'  he  said. 
''I  did  that  myself,  and  I  knocked  the  white  man  over.'  Just 
like  a  Burman,  wasn't  it?  Dennis  wouldn't  be  happy  at  any 
price.  He  said:  'Tie  up  his  wounds.  He'll  bleed  to  death. 
Oh,  my  God,  he'll  bleed  to  death!'  'Tie  'em  up  yourself,'  I 
said,  'if  you're  so  anxious.'  'I  can't  touch  him,'  said  Dennis, 
'but  here's  my  shirt.'  He  took  off  his  shirt,  and  he  fixed  his 
braces  again  over  his  bare  shoulders.  I  ripped  the  shirt  up 
and  bandaged  the  Dacoit  quite  professionally.  He  was  grin- 
ning at  Dennis  all  the  time ;  and  Dennis's  haversack  was 
lying  on  the  ground,  bursting  full  of  sandwiches.  Greedy 
hog!  I  took  some  and  offered  some  to  Dennis.  'How  can 
I  eat?'  he  said.  'How  can  you  ask  me  to  eat?  His  very 
blood  is  on  your  hands,   oh,   God!    and  you're  eating  my  ■ 

I 


f\  Qoi?ferepee  of  tl^e  pou/ers  179 

sandwiches!'  *A11  right,'  I  said.  *T'll  give  'em  to  the 
daku.''  So  I  did,  and  the  little  chap  was  quite  pleased,  and 
wolfed  'em  down  like  one  o'clock." 

Cleever  brought  his  hand  down  on  the  table-cloth  a 
thump  that  made  the  empty  glasses  dance.  "That's  art," 
he  said.  "Flat,  flagrant  mechanism.  Don't  tell  me  that 
happened  on  the  spot!" 

The  pupils  of  the  Infant's  eyes  contracted  to  pin  points. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  slowly  and  a  httle  stiffly,  "but 
I  am  telling  this  thing  as  it  happened. ' ' 

Cleever  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  ' '  My  fault  entirely, ' ' 
said  he.     "I  should  have  known.     Please  go  on." 

* '  Oh,  then  Hicksey  came  out  of  what  was  left  of  the  vil- 
lage with  his  prisoners  and  captives  all  neatly  tied  up.  Boh 
Na-ghee  was  first,  and  one  of  the  villagers,  as  soon  as  he  saw 
the  old  ruffian  helpless,  began  kicking  him  quietly.  The 
Boh  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could,  and  then  groaned,  and  we 
saw  what  was  going  on.  Hicksey  tied  the  villager  up  and 
gave  him  half  a  dozen  good  ones  to  remind  him  to  leave  a 
prisoner  alone.  You  should  have  seen  the  old  Boh  grin. 
Oh,  but  Hicksey  was  in  a  furious  rage  with  everybody.  He'd 
got  a  wipe  over  the  elbow  that  had  tickled  up  his  funny-bone, 
and  he  was  simply  rabid  with  me  for  not  having  helped  him 
with  the  Boh  and  the  mosquito  net.  I  had  to  explain  that  I 
couldn't  do  anything.  If  you'd  seen  'em  both  tangled  up 
together  on  the  floor,  like  a  blaspheming  cocoon,  you'd  have 
laughed  for  a  week.  Hicksey  swore  that  the  only  decent 
man  of  his  acquaintance  was  the  Boh,  and  all  the  way  back 
to  camp  Hicksey  was  talking  to  him,  and  the  Boh  was 
grumbling  about  the  soreness  of  his  bones.  When  we  got 
home  and  had  had  a  bath,  the  Boh  wanted  to  know  when  he 
was  going  to  be  hanged,  Hicksey  said  he  couldn't  oblige 
him  on  the  spot,  but  had  to  send  him  to  Rangoon.  The  Boh 
went  down  on  his  knees  and  reeled  off  a  catalogue  of  his 
crimes —he  ought  to  have  been  hanged  seventeen  times  over 
by  his  own  confession — and  implored  Hicksey  to  settle  the 
business  out  of  hand.     'If  I'm  sent  to  Rangoon,'  said  he^ 


180  U/orKs  of  P^udyard  \{ip\lT)<^ 

^they'll  keep  me  in  jail  all  my  life,  and  that  is  a  death  every 
time  the  sun  gets  up  or  the  wind  blows.'  But  we  had  to 
send  him  to  Rangoon ;  and,  of  course,  he  was  let  off  down 
there  and  given  penal  servitude  for  life.  When  I  came  to 
Rangoon  I  went  over  the  jail — I  had  helped  to  fill  it,  y'know 
— and  the  old  Boh  was  there  and  recognized  me  at  once.  He 
begged  for  some  opium  first,  and  I  tried  to  get  him  some; 
but  that  was  against  the  rules.  Then  he  asked  me  to  have 
his  sentence  changed  to  death,  because  he  was  afraid  of  being 
sent  to  the  Andamans.  I  couldn't  do  that,  either;  but  I 
tried  to  cheer  him,  and  told  him  how  the  row  was  going  up 
country.  And  the  last  thing  he  said  was:  *Give  my  compli- 
ments to  the  fat  white  m.an  who  jumped  on  me.  If  I^d  been 
awake  I'd  have  killed  him.'  I  wrote  that  to  Hicksey  next 
mail,  and — and  that's  all.  I'm  'fraid  I've  been  gassing 
awf'ly,  sir." 

Cleever  said  nothing  for  a  long  time.  The  Infant  looked 
uncomfortable.  He  feared  that,  misled  by  enthusiasm,  he 
had  filled  up  the  novelist's  time  with  unprofitable  recital  of 
trivial  anecdotes. 

Then  said  Cleever:  *'I  can't  understand  it.  Why  should 
you  have  seen  and  done  all  these  things  before  you  have  cut 
your  wisdom-teeth?" 

*' Don't  know,"  said  the  Infant,  apologetically.  ^'I 
haven't  seen  much^ — only  Burmese  jungle." 

*'And  dead  men  and  war  and  power  and  responsibility," 
said  Cleeverj  under  his  breath.  "You  won't  have  any  sen- 
sations left  at  thirty  if  you  go  on  as  you  have  done.  But 
I  want  to  hear  more  tales — ^more  tales."  He  seemed  to 
forget  that  even  subalterns  might  have  engagements  of 
their  own. 

**  We're  thinking  of  dining  out  somewhere,  the  lot  of  us, 
and  gouig  on  to  the  Empire  afterward,"  said  N"evin,  with 
hesitation.  He  did  not  Hke  to  ask  Cleever  to  come  too.  The 
invitation  might  be  regarded  as  "cheek."  And  Cleever, 
anxious  not  to  wag  a  gray  beard  unbidden  among  boys  at 
large,  said  nothing  on  his  side. 


P  Qoi)ferei7ee  of  tY^e  powers  181 

Boileau  solved  the  little  difficulty  by  blurting  out :  **  Won't 
you  come  too,  sir?" 

Cleever  almost  shouted  **Yes,"  and  while  he  was  being 
helped  into  his  coat,  continued  to  murmur  ''Good  heavens!" 
at  intervals,  in  a  manner  that  the  boys  could  not  understand. 

"I  don't  think  I've  been  to  the  Empire  in  my  life,"  said 
he.  ''But,  good  heavens  I  what  is  my  Hfe,  after  all?  Let 
us  go  back." 

So  they  went  out  with  Eustace  Cleever,  and  I  sulked  at 
home  because  the  boys  had  come  to  see  me,  but  had  gone 
over  to  the  better  man,  which  was  humiliating.  They  packed 
him  into  a  cab  with  utmost  reverence,  for  was  he  not  the 
author  of  "As  it  was  in  the  Beginning,"  and  a  person  in 
whose  company  it  was  an  honor  to  go  abroad?  From  all  I 
gathered  later,  he  had  taken  no  less  interest  in  the  perform- 
ance before  him  than  in  the  boys'  conversation,  and  they 
protested  with  emphasis  that  he  was  "as  good  a  man  as  they 
make,  knew  what  a  man  was  driving  at  almost  before  he 
said  it,  and  yet  he's  so  dashed  simple  about  things  any  man 
knows."     That  was  one  of  many  comments  made  afterward. 

At  midnight  they  returned,  announcing  that  they  were 
highly  respectable  gondoliers,  and  that  oysters  and  stout 
VA^ere  what  they  chiefly  needed.  The  eminent  novelist  was 
still  with  them,  and  I  think  he  was  calling  them  by  their 
shorter  names.  I  am  certain  that  he  said  he  had  heen  mov- 
ing in  worlds  not  realized,  and  that  they  had  shown  him  the 
Empire  in  a  new  light.  Still  sore  at  recent  neglect,  I  an- 
swered shortly:  "Thank  Heaven,  we  have  within  the  land 
ten  thousand  as  good  as  they!"  and  when  Cleever  departed, 
asked  him  what  he  thought  of  things  generally. 

He  replied  with  another  quotation,  to  the  effect  that 
though  singing  was  a  remarkably  fine  performance,  I  was  to 
be  quite  sure  that  few  lips  would  be  moved  to  song  if  they 
coulvl  find  a  sufficiency  of  kissing. 

Whereat  I  understood  that  Eustace  Cleever,  decorator  and 
color  man  in  words,  was  blaspheming  his  own  art,  and  that 
he  would  be  sorry  for  this  in  the  morning. 


ON   GREENHOW   HILL 

*^  Ohe  aJimed  din!  Shafiz  Ullah  ahool  Bahadur  Khan, 
where  are  you?  Come  out  of  the  tents,  as  I  have  done,  and 
fight  against  the  Enghsh.  Don't  kill  your  own  kin!  Come 
out  to  me!" 

The  deserter  from  a  native  corps  was  crawling  round  the 
outskirts  of  the  camp,  firing  at  intervals,  and  shouting  invita- 
tions to  his  old  comrades.  Misled  by  the  rain  and  the  dark- 
ness, he  came  to  the  English  wing  of  the  camp,  and  with  his 
yelping  and  rifle  practice  disturbed  the  men.  They  had  been 
making  roads  all  day,  and  were  tired. 

Ortheris  was  sleeping  at  Learoyd's  feet.  *'Wot's  all 
that?"  he  said,  thickly.  Learoyd  snored,  and  a  Snider  bullet 
ripped  its  way  through  the  tent  wall.  The  men  swore.  *'It*s 
that  bloomin'  deserter  from  the  Aurangabadis, "  said  Ortheris. 
"Git  up,  some  one,  an'  tell  'im  'e's  come  to  the  wrong  shop." 

'*Go  to  sleep,  little  man,"  said  Mulvaney,  who  was 
steaming  nearest  the  door.  "I  can't  rise  an'  expaytiat© 
with  him.     'Tis  rainin'  intrenchin'  tools  outside." 

"'Tain't  because  you  bloomin'  can't.  It's  'cause  you 
bloomin'  won't,  ye  long,  limp,  lousy,  lazy  beggar  you.  'Ark 
to  'im  'owhn'!" 

'*Wot's  the  good  of  argyfying?  Put  a  bullet  into  the 
swine?     'E's  keepin'  us  awake!"  said  another  voice. 

A  subaltern  shouted  angrily,  and  a  dripping  sentry  whined 
from  the  darkness. 

**'Tain't  no  good,  sir.  I  can't  see  'im.  'E's  'idin'  some- 
where down  'ill." 

Ortheris  tumbled  out  of  his  blanket.  **  Shall  I  try  to  get 
'im,  sir?"  said  he. 

*'No,"  was  the  answer;  *'lie  down.  I  won't  have  the 
whole  camp  shooting  all  round  the  clock.  Tell  him  to  go 
and  pot  his  friends." 


Oi>  Qreei?l70uj  pill  183 

Ortheris  considered  for  a  moment.  Then,  putting  his 
head  under  the  tent  wall,  he  called,  as  a  'bus  conductor  calls 
in  a  block,  ^"Igher  up,  there!     'Igher  up!" 

The  men  laughed,  and  the  laughter  was  carried  down 
wind  to  the  deserter,  who,  hearing  that  he  had  made  a  mis- 
take, went  off  to  worry  his  own  regiment  half  a  mile  away. 
He  was  received  with  shots,  for  the  Aurangabadis  were  very 
angry  with  him  for  disgracing  their  colors. 

"An'  that's  all  right,"  said  Ortheris,  withdrawing  his 
head  as  he  heard  the  hiccough  of  the  Sniders  in  the  distance. 
*'S'elp  me  Gawd,  tho',  that  man's  not  fit  to  live — messin' 
with  my  beauty-sleep  this  way." 

*'Go  out  and  shoot  him  in  the  morning,  then,"  said  the 
subaltern,  incautiously.  *' Silence  in  the  tents  now!  Get 
your  rest,  men." 

Ortheris  lay  down  with  a  happy  little  sigh,  and  in  two 
minutes  there  was  no  sound  except  the  rain  on  the  canvas 
and  the  all-embracing  and  elemental  snoring  of  Learoyd. 

The  camp  lay  on  a  bare  ridge  of  the  Himalayas,  and  for 
a  week  had  been  waiting  for  a  flying  column  to  make  con- 
nection. The  nightly  rounds  of  the  deserter  and  his  friends 
had  become  a  nuisance. 

In  the  morning  the  men  dried  themselves  in  hot  sunshine 
and  cleaned  their  grimy  accouterments.  The  native  regi- 
ment was  to  take  its  turn  of  road-making  that  day  while  the 
Old  Regiment  loafed. 

"I'm  goin'  to  lay  fer  a  shot  at  that  man,"  said  Ortheris, 
when  he  had  finished  washing  out  his  rifle.  '^  'E  comes  up 
the  water-course  every  evenin'  about  five  o'clock.  If  we  go 
and  lie  out  on  the  north  'ill  a  bit  this  afternoon  we'll  get  'im." 

"You're  a  bloodthirsty  httle  mosquito,"  said  Mulvaney, 
blowing  blue  clouds  into  the  air.  "But  I  suppose  I  will  have 
to  come  wid  you.     Fwhere's  Jock?" 

"Gone  out  with  the  Mixed  Pickles,  'cause  'e  thinks  'isself 
a  bloomin'  marksman,"  said  Ortheris,  with  scorn. 

The  "Mixed  Pickles"  were  a  detachment  of  picked  shots, 
generally  employed  in  clearing  spurs  of  hiUs  when  the  enemy 


184  U/orl^s  of  r^udyard  l^ipliQ<$     , 

were  too  impertinent.  This  taught  the  young  officers  how 
to  handle  men,  and  did  not  do  the  enemy  much  harm.  Mul- 
vaney  and  Ortheris  strolled  out  of  camp,  and  passed  the 
Aurangabadis  going  to  their  road-making. 

"You've  got  to  sweat  to-day,"  said  Ortheris,  genially. 
"We're  going  to  get  your  man.  You  didn't  knock  'im  out 
last  night  by  any  chance,  any  of  you?" 

"No.  The  pig  went  away  mocking  us.  I  had  one  shot 
at  him,"  said  a  private.  "He's  my  cousin,  and  J  ought  to 
have  cleared  our  dishonor.     But  good  luck  to  you. ' ' 

They  went  cautiously  to  the  north  hill,  Ortheris  leading, 
because,  as  he  explained,  "this  is  a  long-range  show,  an' 
I've  got  to  do  it."  His  was  an  almost  passionate  devotion 
to  his  rifle,  whom,  by  barrack-room  report,  he  was  supposed 
to  kiss  every  night  before  turning  in.  Charges  and  scuffles 
he  held  in  contempt,  and,  when  they  were  inevitable,  slipped 
between  Mulvaney  and  Learoyd,  bidding  them  to  fight  for 
his  skin  as  well  as  their  own.  They  never  failed  him.  He 
trotted  along,  questing  like  a  hound  on  a  broken  trail,  through 
the  wood  of  the  north  hill.  At  last  he  was  satisfied,  and 
threw  himself  down  on  the  soft  pine-needle  slope  that  com- 
manded a  clear  view  of  the  water-course  and  a  brown  bare 
hill-side  beyond  it.  The  trees  made  a  scented  darkness  in 
which  an  army  corps  could  have  hidden  from  the  sun-glare 
without. 

"'Ere's  the  tail  o'  the  wood,"  said  Ortheris.  "'E's  got 
to  come  up  the  water-course,  'cause  it  gives  'im  cover.  We'll 
lay  'ere.     'Tain't  not  'arf  so  bloomin'  dusty  neither." 

He  buried  his  nose  in  a  clump  of  scentless  white  violets. 
No  one  had  come  to  tell  the  flowers  that  the  season  of  their 
strength  was  long  past,  and  they  had  bloomed  merrily  in  the 
twilight  of  the  pines. 

"This  is  something  like,"  he  said,  luxuriously.  "Wot  a 
'evinly  clear  drop  for  a  bullet  acrost.  How  much  d'  you 
miake  it,  Mulvaney?" 

"Seven  hunder.  Maybe  a  trifle  less,  bekase  the  air's 
so  thin." 


Or)  Qreei^l^ou;  pill  185 

Wop!  wop!  wop!  went  a  volley  of  rausketry  on  the  rear 
face  of  the  north  hill. 

"Curse  them  Mixed  Pickles  firin'  at  nothin'!  They'll 
scare  'arf  the  country." 

*'Thry  a  sightin'  shot  in  the  middle  of  the  row,"  said 
Mulvaney,  the  man  of  many  wiles.  **  There's  a  red  rock 
yonder  he'll  be  sure  to  pass.     Quick  !'^ 

Ortheris  ran  his  sight  up  to  six  hundred  yards  and  fired. 
The  bullet  threw  up  a  feather  of  dust  by  a  clump  of  gentians 
at  the  base  of  the  rock. 

"Good  enough!^'  said  Ortheris,  snapping  the  scale  down. 
"You  snick  your  sights  to  mine,  or  a  little  lower.  You're 
always  firin'  high.  But  remember,  first  shot  to  me.  Oh, 
Lordy!  but  it^s  a  lovely  afternoon. " 

The  noise  of  the  firing  grew  louder,  and  there  was  a 
tramping  of  men  in  the  wood.  The  two  lay  very  quiet,  for 
they  knew  that  the  British  soldier  is  desperately  prone  to  fire 
at  anything  that  moves  or  calls.  Then  .Learoyd  appeared, 
his  tunic  ripped  across  the  breast  by  a  bullet,  looking  ashamed 
of  himseK.  He  flung  down  on  the  pine-needles,  breathing 
in  snorts. 

"One  o'  them  damned  gardeners  o'  th'  Pickles,"  said  he, 
fingering  the  rent.  "Firin'  to  th'  right  flank,  when  ho 
knowed  I  was  there.  If  I  knew  who  he  was  I'd  'a'  rippen 
the  hide  off  'un.     Look  at  ma  tunic!" 

"That's  the  spishil  trustability  av  a  marksman.  Train 
him  to  hit  a  fly  wid  a  stiddy  rest  at  seven  hunder,  an'  he'U. 
loose  on  anythin'  he  sees  or  hears  up  to  th'  mile.  You're 
well  out  av  that  fancy-firin'  gang,  Jock.     Stay  here." 

"Bin  firin'  at  the  bloomin'  wind  in  the  bloomin'  treetops," 
said  Ortheris,  with  a  chuckle.  "I'll  show  you  some  firin' 
later  on," 

They  wallowed  in  the  pine-needles,  and  the  sun  warmed 
them  where  they  lay.  The  Mixed  Pickles  ceased  firing  and 
returned  to  camp,  and  left  the  wood  to  a  few  scared  apes. 
The  water-course  lifted  up  its  voice  in  the  silence  and  talked 
foolishly  to  the  rocks.     Now  and  again  the  dull  thump  of  a 


186  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{ipliv)<^ 

blastmg  cliarge  three  miles  away  told  that  the  Aurangabadis 
were  in  difficulties  with  their  road-rtiaking.  The  men  smiled 
as  they  listened,  and  lay  still  soaking  in  the  warm  leisure. 
Presently  Learoyd,  between  the  whiffs  of  his  pipe : 

'"Seems  queer — about  'im  yonder — desertin'  at  all." 

*'  'E'll  be  a  bloomin'  site  queerer  when  IVe  done  with 
'im,"  said  Ortheris.  They  were  talking  in  whispers,  for  the 
stillness  of  the  wood  and  the  desire  of  slaughter  lay  heavy 
upon  them. 

'*T  make  no  doubt  he  had  his  reasons  for  desertin';  but, 
my  faith !  I  make  less  doubt  ivry  man  has  good  reason  for 
killin'  him,'"  said  Mulvaney. 

* '  Happen  there  was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi'  it.  Men  do  more 
than  more  for  th'  sake  of  a  lass." 

"They  make  most  ay  us  'list.  They've  no  manner  av 
right  to  make  us  desert." 

'*Ah.  they  make  us  'list,  or  their  fathers  do,"  said  Lea- 
royd, softly,  his  helmet  over  his  eyes. 

Ortheris'  brows  contracted  savagely.  He  was  watching 
the  valley.  "If  it's  a  girl,  I'll  shoot  the  beggar  twice  over, 
an'  second  time  for  bein'  a  fool.  You're  blasted  sentimental 
all  of  a  sudden.     Thinkin'  o'  your  last  near  shave?" 

"Xay,  lad;  ah  was  but  thinkin'  o'  what  had  happened." 

"An'  fwhat  has  happened,  ye  lumberin'  child  av  calam- 
ity, that  you're  lowing  like  a  cow-calf  at  the  back  av  the 
pasture,  an'  suggestin'  invidious  excuses  for  the  man  Stan- 
ley's goin.'  to  kill.  YeTl  have  to  wait  another  hour  yet,  Kt- 
tle  man.  Spit  it  out.  Jock,  an'  bellow  melojus  to  the  moon. 
It  takes  an  earthquake  or  a  bullet  graze  to  fetch  aught  out 
av  you.  Discourse,  Don  JtianI  The  a-moors  of  Lotharius 
Learoyd.  Stanley,  kape  a  rowlin'  rig 'mental  eye  on  the 
valley. ' ' 

"It's  along  o'  yon  hill  there,"  said  Learoyd,  watching 
the  bare  sub- Himalayan  spur  that  reminded  him  of  his  York- 
shire moors.  He  was  speaking  more  to  himself  than  his  fel- 
lows. "Ay,''  said  he:  "Riunbolds  Moor  stands  up  ower 
Skipton  town,   an'   Greenhow  Hill  stands  up  ower  Pately 


Ot)  Oreepl^ou;  jiill  187 

Brigg.  I  reckon  you've  never  heeard  tell  o'  Greenhow  Hill, 
but  yon  bit  o'  bare  stuff,  if  there  was  nobbut  a  white  road 
windin',  is  Hke  ut,  strangely  like.  Moors  an'  moors — moors 
wi'  never  a  tree  for  shelter,  an'  gray  houses  wi'  flagstone 
rooves,  and  pewits  cryin',  an'  a  windhover  goin'  to  and  fro 
just  like  these  kites.  And  cold !  a  wind  that  cuts  you  hke  a 
knife.  You  could  tell  Greenhow  Hill  folk  by  the  red-apple 
color  o'  their  cheeks  an'  nose  tips,  an'  their  blue  eyes,  driven 
into  pin-points  by  the  wind.  Miners  mostly,  burrowin'  for 
lead  i'  th'  hillsides,  followin'  the  trail  of  th'  ore  vein  same 
as  a  field-rat.  It  was  the  roughest  minin'  I  ever  seen.  Yo'd 
come  on  a  bit  o'  creakin'  wood  windlass  like  a  well-head,  an' 
you  was  let  down  i'  th'  bight  of  a  rope,  fendin'  yoursen  off 
the  side  wi'  one  hand,  carryin'  a  candle  stuck  in  a  lump  o' 
clay  with  t'other,  an'  clickin'  hold  of  a  rope  with  t'other 
hand. ' ' 

'*An'  that's  three  of  them,"  said  Mulvaney.  **Must  be 
a  good  chmate  in  those  parts." 

Learoyd  took  no  heed. 

*'An'  then  yo'  came  to  a  level,  where  you  crept  on  your 
hands  an'  knees  through  a  mile  o'  windin'  drift,  an'  you 
come  out  into  a  cave-place  as  big  as  Leeds  Town-hall,  with 
a  engine  pumpin'  water  from  workin's  'at  went  deeper  still. 
It's  a  queer  country,  let  alone  minin',  for  the  hill  is  full  of 
those  natural  caves,  an'  the  rivers  an'  the  becks  drops  into 
what  they  call  pot-holes,  an'  come  out  again  miles  away." 

"Wot  was  you  doin'  there?"  said  Ortheris. 

"I  was  a  young  chap  then,  an'  mostly  went  wi'  'osses, 
leadin'  coal  and  lead  ore;  but  at  th'  time  I'm  teUin'  on  I 
was  drivin'  the  wagon  team  i'  the  big  sumph.  I  didn't  be- 
long to  that  country-side  by  rights;  I  went  there  because  of 
a  little  difference  at  home,  an'  at  fust  I  took  up  wi'  a  rough 
lot.  One  night  we'd  been  drinkin',  an'  I  must  ha'  hed 
more  than  I  could  stand,  or  happen  th'  ale  was  none  so  good. 
Though  i'  them  days,  by  for  God,  I  never  seed  bad  ale." 
He  flung  his  arms  over  his  head  and  gripped  a  vast  handful 
of  white  violets.     "Nah,"  said  he,  "I  never  seed  the  ale  I 


188  U/orKs  of  F^adyard  \{\plii)(^ 

could  not  drink,  the  'bacca  I  could  not  smoke,  nor  the  lass 
I  could  not  kiss.  Well,  we  mun  have  a  race  home,  the  lot 
on  us.  I  lost  all  th'  others,  an'  when  I  was  climbin'  ower 
one  of  them  walls  built  o'  loose  stones,  I  comes  down  into 
the  ditch,  stones  an'  all,  an'  broke  my  arm.  Not  as  I 
knowed  much  about  it,  for  I  fell  on  th'  back  o'  my  head, 
an'  was  knocked  stupid  like.  An'  when  I  come  to  mysen 
it  were  mornin',  an'  I  were  lyin'  on  the  settle  i'  Jesse  Roan- 
tree's  house-place,  an'  'Liza  Roantree  was  settin'  sewin'.  I 
ached  all  ower,  and  my  mouth  were  like  a  lime-kiln.  She 
gave  me  a  drink  out  of  a  china  mug  wi'  gold  letters — *  A 
Present  from  Leeds' — as  I  looked  at  many  and  many  a  time 
after.  'Yo're  to  lie  still  while  Dr.  Warbottom  comes,  be- 
cause your  arm's  broken,  an'  father  has  sent  a  lad  to  fetch 
him.  He  found  yo'  when  he  was  goin'  to  work,  an'  carried 
you  here  on  his  back,'  sez  site.  'Oa!'  sez  I;  an'  I  shet  my 
eyes,  for  I  felt  ashamed  o'  mysen.  *  Father's  gone  to  his 
work  these  three  hours,  an'  he  said  he'd  tell  'em  to  get  some- 
body to  drive  the  train. '  The  clock  ticked  an'  a  bee  corned 
in  the  house,  an'  they  rung  i'  my  head  like  mill-wheels.  An' 
she  give  me  another  drink  an'  settled  the  pillow.  *Eh,  but 
yo're  young  to  be  getten  drunk  an'  such  like,  but  yo'  won't 
do  it  again,  will  yo?'  *E"oa,'  sez  I,  'I  wouldn't  if  she'd  not 
but  stop  they  mill-wheels  clatterin'.'  " 

**  Faith,  it's  a  good  thing  to  be  nursed  by  a  woman  when 
you're  sick!''  said  Mulvaney.  *'Dirt  cheap  at  the  price  av 
twenty  broken  heads. " 

Ortheris  turned  to  frown  across  the  valley.  He  had  not 
been  nursed  by  many  women  in  his  life. 

**An'  then  Dr.  Warbottom  comes  ridin'  up,  an'  Jesse 
Roantree  along  with  'im.  He  was  a  high-larned  doctor, 
but  he  talked  wi'  poor  folks  same  as  theirsens.  'Wha-t's  tha 
bin  agaate  on  naa?'  he  sings  out.  *Brekkin  tha  thick  head?* 
An'  he  felt  me  all  over.  'That's  none  broken.  Tha'  nobbut 
knocked  a  bit  sillier  than  ordinary,  an'  that's  daaft  eneaf.' 
An'  soa  he  went  on,  callin'  me  all  the  names  he  could  think 
on,  but  settin^  my  arm,  wi'  Jesse's  help,  as  careful  as  could 


Ot)  Qre8i>l?ou7  J4ill  189 

be.  *Yo'  mun  let  the  big  oaf  bide  here  a  bit,  Jesse,'  he  says, 
when  he  had  strapped  me  up  an'  given  me  a  dose  o'  physic ; 
*an'  you  an'  'Liza  will  tend  him,  though  he's  scarcehns 
worth  the  trouble.  An'  tha'U  lose  tha  work,'  sez  he,  *an' 
tha'U  be  upon  th'  Sick  Club  for  a  couple  o'  months  an'  more. 
Doesn't  tha  thmk  tha's  a  fool?'  " 

*'But  whin  was  a  young  man,  high  or  low,  the  other  av 
a  fool,  I'd  Hke  to  know?"  said  Mulvaney.  "Sure,  folly's 
the  only  safe  way  to  wisdom,  for  I've  thried  it." 

"Wisdom!"  grinned  Ortheris,  scanning  his  comrades  with 
uplifted  chin.  "You're  bloomin'  Solomons,  you  two,  ain't 
you?" 

Learoyd  went  calmly  on,  with  a  steady  eye  like  an  ox 
chewing  the  cud.  "And  that  was  how  I  comed  to  know 
'Liza  Roantree.  There's  some  tunes  as  she  used  to  sing — 
aw,  she  were  always  singin' — that  fetches  Greenhow  Hill 
before  my  eyes  as  fair  as  yon  brow  across  there.  And  she 
would  learn  me  to  sing  bass,  an'  I  was  to  go  to  th'  chapel 
wi'  'em,  where  Jesse  and  she  led  the  singin',  th'  old  man 
playin'  the  fiddle.  He  was  a  strange  chap,  old  Jesse,  fair 
mad  wi'  music,  an'  he  made  me  promise  to  learn  the  big  fid- 
dle when  my  arm  was  better.  It  belonged  to  him,  and  it 
stood  up  in  a  big  case  alongside  o'  th'  eight-day  clock,  but 
Willie  Satterthwaite,  as  played  it  in  the  chapel,  had  getten 
deaf  as  a  door-post,  and  it  vexed  Jesse,  as  he  had  to  rap  him 
.  ower  his  head  wi'  th'  fiddle-stick  to  make  him  give  ower 
sawin'  at  th'  right  time. 

"But  there  was  a  black  drop  in  it  all,  an'  it  was  a  man 
in  a  black  coat  that  brought  it.  When  th'  Primitive  Method- 
ist preacher  came  to  Greenhow,  he  would  always  stop  wi' 
Jesse  Roantree,  an'  he  laid  hold  of  me  from  th'  beginning. 
It  seemed  I  wor  a  soul  to  be  saved,  an'  he  meaned  to  do  it. 
At  th'  same  time  I  jealoused  'at  he  were  keen  o'  savin'  'Liza 
Roantree's  soul  as  well,  an'  I  could  ha'  killed  him  many  a 
time.  An'  this  went  on  till  one  day  I  broke  out,  an'  bor- 
rowed th'  brass  for  a  drink  from  'Liza.  After  fewer  days 
I  come  back,  wi'  my  tail  between  my  legs,  just  to  see  'Liza 


190  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplir)^ 

again.  But  Jesse  were  at  liome,  an'  th.'  preacher — th'  Rev- 
erend Amos  Barraclough.  'Liza  said  naught,  but  a  bit  o'  red 
come  into  her  face  as  were  white  of  a  regular  thing.  Says 
Jesse,  tryin'  his  best  to  be  civil:  *Nay,  ladj  it's  Mke  this. 
You've  getten  to  choose  which  way  it's  goin'  to  be.  I'll  ha' 
nobody  across  ma  doorsteps  as  goes  a-drinMn',  an'  borrows 
my  lass's  money  to  spend  i'  their  drink.  Ho'd  tha  tongue, 
'Liza,'  sez  he,  when  she  wanted  to  put  in  a  word  'at  I  were 
welcome  to  th'  brass,  an'  she  were  none  afraid  that  I  wouldn't 
pay  it  back.  Then  the  reverend  cuts  in,  seein'  as  Jesse  were 
losin'  his  temper,  an'  they  fair  beat  me  among  them.  Bufc 
it  were  'Liza,  as  looked  an'  said  naught,  as  did  more  than 
either  o'  their  tongues,  an'  soa  I  concluded  to  get  converted." 

"Fwhat!"  shotited  Mulvaney.  Then,  checking  himself, 
he  said,  softly:  *'Let  be!  Let  be!  Sure  the  Blessed  Virgin 
is  the  mother  of  all  religion  an'  most  women;  an'  there's  a 
dale  av  piety  in  a  girl  if  the  men  would  only  let  it  stay 
there.  I'd  ha'  been  converted  myseK  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

*^lTay,  but,"  pursued  Learoyd,  with  a  blush,  **I  meaned 
it." 

Ortheris  laughed  as  loudly  as  he  dared,  having  regard  to 
his  business  at  the  time. 

*'Ay,  Ortheris,  you  may  laugh,  but  you  didn't  know  yon 
preacher  Barraclough— a  little  white-faced  chap  wi'  a  voice 
as  'ud  wile  a  bird  off  an  a  bush,  and  a  way  o'  lay  in'  hold  of 
folks  as  made  them  think  they'd  never  had  a  live  man  for 
a  friend  before.  You  never  saw  him,  an'— -an' — you  never 
seed  'Liza  Roantree — never  seed  'Liza  Roantree.  .  .  .  Hap- 
pen it  was  as  much  'Liza  as  th'  preacher  and  her  father,  but 
anywaj^s  they  all  meaned  itj  an'  I  was  fair  shamed  o'  mysen, 
an'  so  become  what  they  called  a  changed  character.-  And 
when  I  think  on,  it's  hard  to  believe  as  yon  chap  going  to 
prayer-meetin's,  chapel,  and  class-meetin's  were  me.  But  I 
never  had  naught  to  say  for  mysen,  though  there  was  a  deal 
o'  shoutin',  and  old  Sammy  Strother,  as  were  almost  clemmed 
to  death  and  doubled  up  with  the  rheumatics,  would  sing  out, 


Ot)  Qreei>l?ou/  j^'iU  191 

•Joyful!  joyful!'  and  'at  it  were  better  to  go  up  to  heaven  in 
a  coal-basket  than  down  to  hell  i'  a  coach  an'  six.  And  he 
would  put  his  poor  old  claw  on  my  shoulder,  sayin' :  'Doesn't 
tha  feel  it,  tha  great  lump?  Doesn't  tha  feel  it?'  An'  some- 
times I  thought  I  did,  and  then  again  I  thought  I  didn't,  an' 
how  was  that?" 

"The  iverlastin'  nature  av  mankind,"  said  Mulvaney. 
"An'  furthermore,  I  misdoubt  you  were  built  for  the  Primi- 
tive Methodians.  They're  a  new  corps  anyways.  I  hold  by 
the  Ould  Church,  for  she's  the  mother  of  them  all — ay,  an' 
the  father,  too.  I  like  her  bekase  she's  most  remarkable  regi- 
mental in  her  fittings.  I  may  die  in  Honolulu,  Nova  Zam- 
bra,  or  Cape  Cayenne,  but  wherever  I  die,  me  bein'  fwhat  I 
am,  an'  a  priest  handy,  I  go  under  the  same  orders  an'  the 
same  words  an'  the  same  unction  as  tho'  the  pope  himself 
come  down  from  the  dome  av  St.  Peter's  to  see  me  off. 
There's  neither  high  nor  low,  nor  broad  nor  deep,  nor  be- 
twixt nor  between  with  her,  an'  that's  what  I  like.  But 
mark  you,  she's  no  manner  av  Church  for  a  wake  man,  be- 
kase she  takes  the  body  and  the  soul  av  him,  onless  he  has 
his  proper  work  to  do.  I  remember  when  my  father  died, 
that  was  three  months  comin'  to  his  grave;  begad  he'd  ha' 
sold  the  sheebeen  above  our  heads  for  ten  minutes'  quittance 
of  purgathory.  An'  he  did  all  he  could.  That's  why  I  say  it 
takes  a  strong  man  to  deal  with  the  Ould  Church,  an'  for 
.that  reason  you'll  find  so  many  women  go  there.  An'  that 
same's  a  conundrum." 

"Wot's  the  use  o'  worritin'  'bout  these  things?"  said 
Ortheris.  "You're  bound  to  find  all  out  quicker  nor  you 
want  to,  any'ow."  He  jerked  the  cartridge  out  of  the 
breech-lock  into  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  'Ere's  my  chap« 
Iain,"  he  said,  and  made  the  venomous  black-headed  bullet 
bow  like  a  marionette.  "  'E's  goin'  to  teach  a  man  all  about 
which  is  which,  an'  wot's  true,  after  all,  before  sundown. 
But  wot  'appened  after  that,  Jock?" 

"There  was  one  thing  they  boggled  at,  and  almost  shut 
th'  gate  i'  my  face  for,  and  that  were  my  dog  Blast,  th'  only 


192  U/or^s  of  r^udyard  l^iplip($ 

one  saved  out  o'  a  litter  o'  pups  as  was  blowed  up  when  a  keg 
o'  minin'  powder  loosed  off  in  th'  storekeeper's  hut.  They 
liked  his  name  no  better  than  his  business,  which  was  fightin' 
every  dog  he  corned  across;  a  rare  good  dog,  wi'  spots  o' 
black  and  pink  on  his  face,  one  ear  gone,  and  lame  o'  one 
side  wi'  being  driven  in  a  basket  through  an  iron  roof,  a 
matter  of  half  a  mile. 

**They  said  I  mun  give  him  up  'cause  he  were  worldly 
and  low;  and  would  I  let  mysen  be  shut  out  of  heaven  for 
the  sake  of  a  dog?  *lTay,'  says  I,  'if  th'  door  isn't  wide 
enough  for  th'  pair  on  us,  we'll  stop  outside,  or  we'll  none  be 
parted. '  And  th'  preacher  spoke  up  for  Blast,  as  had  a 
likin'  for  him  from  th'  first— -I  reckon  that  was  why  I  come 
to  like  th'  preacher— and  wouldn't  hear  o'  changin'  his  name 
to  Bless,  as  some  o'  them  wanted.  So  th'  pair  on  us  became 
reg'lar  chapel  members.  But  it's  hard  for  a  young  chap  o' 
my  build  to  cut  tracks  from  the  world,  th'  flesh,  an'  the  devil 
all  av  a  heap.  Yet  I  stuck  to  it  for  a  long  time,  while  th' 
lads  as  used  to  stand  about  th'  town»end  an'  lean  ower  th* 
bridge,  spittin'  into  th'  beck  o'  a  Sunday,  would  call  after  me, 
*Sitha,  Learoyd,  when's  tha  bean  to  preach,  'cause  we're 
comin'  to  hear  that.'  'Ho'd  tha  jaw!  He  hasn't  gotten  th' 
white  choaker  on  to  morn,'  another  lad  would  say,  and  I  had 
to  double  my  fists  hard  i'  th'  bottom  of  my  Sunday  coat,  and 
say  to  mysen,  *If  'twere  Monday  and  I  warn't  a  member  o' 
the  Primitive  Methodists,  I'd  leather  all  th'  lot  of  yond.' 
That  was  th'  hardest  of  all — to  know  that  I  could  fight  and 
I  mustn't  fight." 

Sympathetic  grunts  from  Mulvaney. 

**So  what  wi'  singin',  practicin',  and  class-meetin's,  and 
th'  big  fiddle,  as  he  made  me  take  between  my  knees,  I 
spent  a  deal  o'  time  i'  Jesse  Roantree's  house-place  But 
often  as  I  was  there,  th'  preacher  fared  to  me  to  go  oftener, 
and  both  th'  old  an'  th'  young  woman  were  pleased  to  have 
him.  He  lived  i'  Pately  Brigg,  as  were  a  goodish  step  off, 
but  he  come.  He  come  all  the  same.  I  liked  him  as  well 
or  better  as  any  man  I'd  ever  seen  i'  one  way,  and  yet  I 


Ot)  Qreeplpou;  pill  193 

hated  him  wi'  all  mj  heart  i'  t'other,  and  we  watched  each 
other  Hke  cat  and  mouse,  but  civil  as  you  please,  for  I  was 
on  my  best  behavior,  and  he  was  that  fair  and  open  that  I 
was  bound  to  be  fair  with  him.  Rare  and  good  company  he 
was,  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  wring  his  chver  little  neck  haK  of 
the  time.  Often  and  often  when  he  was  goin'  from  Jesse's 
I'd  set  him  a  bit  on  the  road." 

"See  'im  'ome,  you  mean?"  said  Ortheris, 

*' Ay.  It's  a  way  we  have  i'  Yorkshire  o'  seein'  friends 
off.  Yon  was  a  friend  as  I  didn't  want  to  come  back,  and 
he  didn't  want  me  to  come  back  neither,  and  so  we'd  walk 
together  toward  Pately,  and  then  he'd  set  me  back  again, 
and  there  we'd  be  twal  two  o'clock  i'  the  mornin'  settin'  each 
other  to  an'  fro  like  a  blasted  pair  o'  pendulums  'twixt  hill 
and  valley,  long  after  th'  hght  had  gone  out  i'  'Liza's  win- 
dow, as  both  on  us  had  been  looking  at,  pretending  to  watch 
the  moon." 

"Ah!"  broke  in  Mulvaney,  "ye'd  no  chanst  against  the 
maraudin'  psalm-singer.  They'll  take  the  airs  an*  the  graces, 
instid  av  the  man,  nine  times  out  av  ten,  an'  they  only  find 
the  blunder  later — the  wimmen." 

"That's  just  where  yo're  wrong,"  said  Learoyd,  reddening 
under  the  freckled  tan  of  his  cheek.  "I  was  th'  first  wi' 
'Liza,  an'  yo'd  think  that  were  enough.  But  th'  parson 
were  a  steady-gaited  sort  o'  chap,  and  Jesse  were  strong  o' 
his  side,  and  all  th'  women  i'  the  congregation  dinned  it  to 
'Liza  'at  she  were  fair  fond  to  take  up  wi'  a  wastrel  ne'er-do- 
weel  like  me,  as  was  scarcelins  respectable,  and  a  fighting- 
dog  at  his  heels.  It  was  all  very  weU  for  her  to  be  doing  me 
good  and  saving  my  soul,  but  she  must  mind  as  she  didn't 
do  herself  harm.  They  talk  o'  rich  folk  bein'  stuck  up  an' 
genteel,  but  for  cast-iron  pride  o'  respectability  there's  naught 
like  poor  chapel  folk.  It's  as  cold  as  th'  wind  o'  Greenhow 
Hill — ay,  and  colder,  for  'twill  never  change.  And  now  I 
come  to  think  on  it,  one  of  the  strangest  things  I  know  is  'at 
they  couldn't  abide  th'  thought  o'  soldiering.  There's  a  vast 
o'  fightin'  i'  th'  Bible,  and  there's  a  deal  of  Methodists  i'  th' 
Vol.  3,  9 


194  U/orl^s  of  r^udyard  l^iplii}^ 

army ;  but  to  hear  cliapel  folk  talk  yo'd  think  that  soldierin' 
were  next  door,  an'  t'other  side,  to  hangin'.  I'  their  meetin's 
all  their  talk  is  o'  fightin'.  When  Sammy  Strother  were 
struk  for  summat  to  say  in  his  prayers,  he'd  sing  out :  'The 
sword  o'  th'  Lord  and  o'  Gideon.'  They  were  alius  at  it 
about  puttin'  on  th'  whole  armor  o'  righteousness,  an'  fightin' 
the  good  fight  o'  faith.  And  then,  atop  o'  't  all,  they  held  a 
prayer-meetin'  ower  a  young  chap  as  wanted  to  'list,  and 
nearly  deafened  him,  till  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  fair  ran 
away.  And  they'd  tell  tales  in  th'  Sunday-school  o'  bad 
lads  as  had  been  thumped  and  brayed  for  bird-nesting  o' 
Sundays  and  playin'  truant  o'  week-days,  and  how  they  took 
to  wrestlin',  dog-fightin',  rabbit-runnin',  and  drinkin',  till  at 
last,  as  if  'twere  a  hepitaph  on  a  grave-stone,  they  damned 
him  across  th'  moors  wi'  it,  an'  then  he  went  and  'listed  for 
a  soldier,  an'  they'd  all  fetch  a  deep  breath,  and  throw  up 
their  eyes  like  a  hen  drinkin'." 

''Fwhy  is  it?"  said  Mulvaney,  bringing  down  his  hand 
on  his  thigh  with  a  crack.  '*In  the  name  av  God,  fwhy  is 
it?  I've  seen  it,  tu.  They  cheat  an'  they  swindle,  an'  they 
lie  an'  they  slander,  an'  fifty  things  fifty  times  worse;  but 
the  last  an'  the  worst,  by  their  reckonin',  is  to  serve  the 
Widdy  honest.  It's  like  the  talk  av  childer — seein'  things 
all  round." 

"Plucky  lot  of  fightin'  good  fights  of  whatsername  they'd 
do  if  we  didn't  see  they  had  a  quiet  place  to  fight  in.  And 
such  fightin'  as  theirs  is!  Cats  on  the  tiles.  T'other  callin' 
to  which  to  come  on.  I'd  give  a  month's  pay  to  get  some  o' 
them  broad-backed  beggars  in  London  sweatin'  through  a 
day's  road-makin'  an'  a  night's  rain.  They'd  carry  on  a 
deal  afterward — same  as  we're  supposed  to  carry  on.  I've 
bin  turned  out  of  a  measly  'arf -license  pub  down  Lambeth 
way,  full  o'  greasy  kebm en,  'fore  now,"  said  Ortheris  with 
an  oath. 

"Maybe  you  were  dhrunk,"  said  Mulvaney,  soothingly. 

"Worse  nor  that.  The  Forders  were  drunk.  I  was 
wearin'  the  queen's  uniform." 


Oi>  Qreepl^ou/  pill  195 

"I'd  not  particular  thought  to  be  a  soldier  V  them  days," 
said  Learoyd,  still  keeping  his  eye  on  tne  bare  hill  opposite, 
*'but  this  sort  o'  talk  put  it  i*  my  head.  They  was  so  good, 
th'  chapel  folk,  that  they  tumbled  ower  t'other  side.  But  I 
stuck  to  it  for  'Liza's  sake,  specially  as  she  was  leainingme 
to  sing  the  bass  part  in  a  horotorio  as  Jesse  were  getting  up. 
She  sung  like  a  throstle  hersen,  and  we  had  practicin's  night 
after  night  for  a  matter  of  three  months.  ^ ' 

* '  I  know  what  a  horotorio  is, ' '  said  Ortheris,  pertly.  ' '  It's 
a  sort  of  chaplain's  sing-song — words  ah  out  of  the  Bible, 
and  hullabalooj  ah  choruses. '* 

"Most  Greenhow  HiU  folks  played  some  instrument  or 
t'other,  an'  they  all  sung  so  you  might  have  heard  them 
miles  away,  and  they  was  so  pleased  wi*  the  noise  they  made 
they  didn't  fair  to  want  anybody  to  listen.  The  preacher 
sung  high  seconds  when  he  wasn't  playin'  the  flute,  an'  they 
set  me,  as  hadn't  got  far  with  big  fiddle,  again  WilHe  Satter- 
thwaite,  to  jog  his  elbow  when  he  had  to  get  a  gate  playin'. 
Old  Jesse  was  happy  if  ever  a  man  was,  for  he  were  th'  con- 
ductor an'  th'  first  fiddle  an'  th^  leadin'  singer,  beatin'  time 
wi'  his  fiddle-stick,  till  at  times  he'd  rap  with  it  on  the  table, 
and  cry  outs  'Now,  you  mun  all  stop;  it's  my  turn.'  And 
he'd  face  round  to  his  front,  fair  sweatin'  wi'  pride,  to  sing 
the  tenor  solos.  But  he  were  grandest  i'  th'  chorus,  waggin' 
his  head,  flingin'  his  arms  round  like  a  windmill,  and  singin' 
hisself  black  in  the  face.     A  rare  singer  were  Jesse. 

*' Yo'  see,  I  was  not  o'  much  account  wi'  'em  all  exceptin' 
to  Eliza  Roantree,  and  I  had  a  deal  o'  time  settin'  quiet  at 
meetin'  and  horotorio  practices  to  hearken  their  talk,  and  if 
it  were  strange  to  me  at  beginnin',  it  got  stranger  still  at 
after,  when  I  was  shut  in,  and  could  study  what  it  meaned. 

*'Just  after  th'  horotorios  come  off,  'Liza,  as  had  alius 
been  weakly  like,  was  took  very  bad.  I  walked  Doctor 
"Warbottom's  horse  up  and  down  a  deal  of  times  while  he 
Were  inside,  where  they  wouldn't  let  me  go,  though  I  fair 
ached  to  see  her. 

**  *  She'll  be  better  i'  noo,  lad — better  i'  noo,'  he  used  to 


196 


Worlds  of  F^ndyard  l^iplip^ 


say.  *Tha  mun  ha'  patience.'  Then  they  said  if  I  was 
quiet  I  might  go  in,  and  th'  Reverend  Amos  Barraclough 
used  to  read  to  her  iyin'  propped  up  among  th'  pillows. 
Then  she  began  to  mend  a  bit,  and  they  let  me  carry  her  on 
th'  settle,  and  when  it  got  warm  again  she  went  about  same 
as  afore.  Th'  preacher  and  me  and  Blast  was  a  deal  to- 
gether i'  them  days,  and  i'  one  way  we  was  rare  good  com- 
rades. But  I  could  ha'  stretched  him  time  and  again  with  a 
good- will.  I  mind  one  day  he  said  he  would  like  to  go  down 
into  th'  bowels  o'  th'  earth,  and  see  how  th'  Lord  had  build  ed 
th'  framework  o'  the  everlastin'  hills.  He  was  one  of  them 
chaps  as  had  a  gift  o'  sayin'  things.  They  rolled  off  the  tip 
of  his  clever  tongue,  same  as  Mulvaney  here,  as  would  ha' 
made  a  rale  good  preacher  if  he  had  nobbut  given  his  mind 
to  it.  I  lent  him  a  suit  o'  miner's  kit  as  almost  buried  th' 
httle  man,  and  his  white  face,  down  i'  th'  coat  collar  and 
hat  flap,  looked  like  the  face  of  a  boggart,  and  he  cowered 
down  i'  th'  bottom  o'  the  wagon.  I  was  drivin'  a  tram  as 
led  up  a  bit  of  an  incline  up  to  th'  cave  where  the  engine  was 
pumpin',  and  where  th'  ore  was  brought  up  and  put  into  th' 
wagons  as  went  down  o'  themselves,  me  puttin'  th'  brake  on 
and  th'  horses  a-trottin'  after.  Long  as  it  was  daylight  we 
were  good  friends,  but  when  we  got  fair  into  th'  dark,  and 
could  nobbut  see  th'  day  shinin'  at  the  hole  like  a  lamp  at  a 
street  end,  I  feeled  downright  wicked.  My  religion  dropped 
all  aWay  from  me  when  I  looked  back  at  him  as  were  always 
comin'  between  me  and  Eliza.  The  talk  was  'at  they  were 
to  be  wed  when  she  got  better,  an'  I  couldn't  get,  her  to  say 
yes  or  nay  to  it.  He  began  to  sing  a  hymn  in  his  thin  voice, 
and  I  came  out  wi'  a  chorus  that  was  all  cussin'  an'  swearin' 
at  my  horses,  an'  I  began  to  know  how  I  hated  him.  He 
were  such  a  little  chap,  too.  I  could  drop  him  wi'  one  hand 
down  Garstang's  copper-hole — a  place  where  th'  beck  slithered 
ower  th'  edge  on  a  rock,  and  fell  wi'  a  bit  of  a  whisper  into 
a  pit  as  no  rope  i'  Greenhow  could  plump." 

Again  Learoyd  rooted  up  the  innocent  violets.     '*Ay,  he 
should  see  th'  bowels  o'  th'  earth  an'  never  naught  else.     I 


Ot)  Creepl^ou;  pill  197 

could  take  him  a  mile  or  two  along  th'  drift,  and  leave  him 
wi'  his  candle  doused  to  cry  hallelujah,  wi'  none  to  hear  him 
and  say  amen.  I  was  to  lead  him  down  th'  ladder-way  to 
th'  drift  where  Jesse  Roantree  was  workin',  and  why 
shouldn't  he  slip  on  th'  ladder,  wi'  my  feet  on  his  fingers  till 
they  loosed  grip,  and  I  put  him  down  wi'  my  heel?  If  I 
went  fust  down  th'  ladder  I  could  click  hold  on  him  and 
chuck  him  over  my  head,  so  as  he  should  go  squashin'  down 
the  shaft,  breakin'  his  bones  at  ev'ry  timberin',  as  Bill 
Appleton  did  when  he  was  fresh,  and  hadn't  a  bone  left  when 
he  brought  to  th'  bottom.  Niver  a  blasted  leg  to  walk  from. 
Pately.  Mver  an  arm  to  put  round  'Liza  Roantree's  waist. 
Niver  no  more — niver  no  more." 

The  thick  lips  curled  back  over  the  yellow  teeth,  and  that 
flushed  face  was  not  pretty  to  look  upon.  Mulvaney  nodded 
sympathy,  and  Ortheris,  moved  hj  his  comrade's  passion, 
brought  up  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  and  searched  the  hill« 
sides  for  his  quarry,  muttering  ribaldry  about  a  sparrow,  a 
spout,  and  a  thunder-storm.  The  voice  of  the  water-course 
supplied  the  necessary  small-talk  till  Learoyd  picked  up  his 
story. 

''But  it's  none  so  easy  to  kill  a  man  like  yon.  When  I'd 
give  up  my  horses  to  th'  lad  as  took  my  place,  and  I  was 
showin  'th'  preacher  th'  workin's,  shoutin'  into  his  ear  across 
th'  clang  o'  th'  pumpin'  engines,  I  saw  he  was  afraid  o' 
naught;  and  when  the  lamp-light  showed  his  black  eyes,  I 
could  feel  as  he  was  masterin'  me  again.  I  were  no  better 
nor  Blast  chained  up  short  and  growlin'  i'  the  depths  of  him 
while  a  strange  dog  went  safe  past. 

"  'Th'  art  a  coward  and  a  fool,'  I  said  to  mysen;  an'  I 
wrestled  i'  my  mind  again'  him  till,  when  we  come  to  Gar» 
stang's  copper-hole,  I  laid  hold  o'  the  preacher  and  lifted  him 
up  over  my  head  and  held  him  into  the  darkest  on  it.  *Now, 
lad,'  I  says,  'it's  to  be  one  or  t'other  on  us — ^thee  or  me — for 
'Liza  Roantree.  Why,  isn't  thee  afraid  for  thysen?'  I  says, 
for  he  were  still  i'  my  arms  as  a  sack.  'ItTay;  I'm  but 
afraid  for  thee,  my  poor  lad,  as  knows  naught, '  says  he.     I 


198  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{ip\iT)<^ 

set  him  down  on  th'  edge,  an*  th'  beck  run  stiller,  an'  tliere 
was  no  more  bnzzin'  in  my  head  like  when  th'  bee  come 
through  th'  window  o*  Jesse's  house.  'What  does  tha 
mean?'  says  I. 

''  'I've  often  thought  as  thou  ought  to  know,'  says  he, 
'but  'twas  hard  to  tell  thee.  'Liza  Roantree's  for  neither  on 
us,  nor  for  nobody  o'  this  earth.  Doctor  Warbottom  says — 
and  he  knows  her,  and  her  mother  before  her — that  she  is  in 
a  decline,  and  she  cannot  hve  six  months  longer.  He's  known 
it  for  many  a  day.  Steady,  John!  Steady!'  says  he.  And 
that  weak  Kttle  man  pulled  me  further  back  and  set  me 
again'  him,  and  talked  it  all  over  quiet  and  still,  me  turnin' 
a  bunch  o'  candles  in  my  hand,  and  counting  them  ower  and 
ower  again  as  I  listened.  A  deal  on  it  were  th'  regular 
preachin'  talk,  but  there  were  a  vast  lot  as  made  me  begin  to 
think  as  he  were  more  of  a  man  than  I'd  ever  given  him 
credit  for,  till  I  were  cut  as  deep  for  him  as  I  were  for  mysen. 

"Six  candles  we  had,  and  we  crawled  and  climbed  all 
that  day  while  they  lasted,  and  I  said  to  mysen:  '  'Liza 
Roantree  hasn't  six  months  to  live. '  And  when  we  came 
into  th'  daylight  again  we  were  like  dead  men  to  look  at, 
an'  Blast  come  behind  us  without  so  much  as  waggin'  his 
tail.  "When  I  saw  'Liza  again  she  looked  at  me  a  minute, 
and  says:  'Who's  telled  tha?  For  I  see  tha  knows.'  And 
she  tried  to  smile  as  she  kissed  me,  and  I  fair  broke  down. 

"You  see,  I  was  a  young  chap  i'  them  days,  and  had 
seen  naught  o'  Hfe,  let  alone  death,  as  is  alius  a-waitin'. 
She  telled  me  as  Dr.  "Warbottom  said  as  Greenhow  air  was 
too  keen,  and  they  were  goin'  to  Bradford,  to  Jesse's  brother 
David,  as  worked  i'  a  mill,  and  I  mun  hold  up  like  a  man 
and  a  Christian,  and  she'd  pray  for  me  well;  and  they  went 
away,  and  the  preacher  that  same  back  end  o'  th'  year  were 
appointed  to  another  circuit,  as  they  call  it,  and  I  were  left 
alone  on  Greenhow  Hill. 

"I  tried,  and  I  tried  hard,  to  stick  to  th'  chapel,  but 
'tweren't  th'  same  thing  at  all  after.  I  hadn't  'Liza's  voice 
to  follow  i'  th'  singin',  nor  her  eyes  a-shinin'  acrost  their 


Oi)  QreeT)\)o\jj  flill  199 

heads.  And  i'  th'  class-meetings  they  said  as  I  mun  have 
some  experiences  to  tell,  and  I  hadn't  a  word  to  say  for 
mysen. 

"Blast  and  me  moped  a  good  deal,  and  happen  we  didn't 
behave  ourselves  over  well,  for  they  dropped  us,  and  won- 
dered however  they'd  come  to  take  us  up.  I  can't  tell  how 
we  got  through  th'  time,  while  i'  th'  winter  I  gave  up  my 
job  and  went  to  Bradford.  Old  Jesse  were  at  th'  door  o'  th' 
house,  in  a  long  street  o'  little  houses.  He'd  been  sendin' 
th'  children  'way  as  were  clatterin'  their  clogs  in  th'  cause- 
way, for  she  were  asleep. 

*' 'Is  it  thee?'  he  says;  *but  you're  not  to  see  her.  I'll 
non«  have  her  wakened  for  a  nowt  like  thee.  She's  goin' 
fast,  and  she  mun  go  in  peace.  Thou'lt  never  be  good  for 
naught  i'  th'  world,  and  as  long  as  thou  lives  thou'U  never 
play  the  big  fiddle.  Get  away,  lad,  get  away  I'  So  he  shut 
the  door  softly  i'  my  face. 

*' Nobody  never  made  Jesse  my  master,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  he  was  about  right,  and  I  went  away  into  the  town  and 
knocked  up  against  a  recruiting  sergeant.  The  old  tales  o' 
th'  chapel  folk  came  buzzin'  into  my  head.  I  was  to  get 
away,  and  this  were  th'  regular  road  for  the  likes  o'  me.  I 
'listed  there  and  then,  took  th'  Widow's  shillin',  and  had  a 
bunch  o'  ribbons  pinned  i'  my  hat. 

"But  next  day  I  found  my  way  to  David  Roantree's  door, 
and  Jesse  came  to  open  it.  Says  he:  'Thou's  come  back 
again  wi'  th'  devil's  colors  fljdn' — thy  true  colors,  as  I 
always  telled  thee.' 

*'But  I  begged  and  prayed  of  him  to  let  me  see  her, 
nobbut  to  say  good-by,  till  a  woman  calls  down  th'  stairway 
— she  says,  'John  Learoyd's  to  come  up.'  Th'  old  man  shift 
aside  in  a  flash,  and  lays  his  hand  on  my  arm,  quite  gentle 
like.  'But  thou'lt  be  quiet,  John,'  says  he,  'for  she's  rare 
and  weak.     Thou  wast  alius  a  good  lad. ' 

"Her  eyes  were  ahve  wi'  light,  and  her  hair  was  thick 
on  the  pillow  round  her,  but  her  cheeks  were  thin — thin  to 
frighten  a  man  that's  strong.     'Nay,  father,  yo'  mayn't  say 


^00  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplir}($ 


I 


th'  devil's  colors.  Them  ribbons  is  pretty. '  An'  she  held 
out  her  hands  for  th'  hat,  an'  she  put  all  straight  as  a 
woman  will  wi'  ribbons.  'ISfay,  but  what  they're  pretty,' 
she  says.  'Eh,  but  I'd  ha'  liked  to  see  thee  i'  thy  red  coat, 
John,  for  thou  wast  alius  my  own  lad— my  very  own  lad, 
and  none  else.' 

**She  lifted  up  her  arms,  and  they  came  round  my  neck 
i'  a  gentle  grip,  and  they  slacked  away,  and  she  seemed 
fainting.  *!N"ow  yo'  mun  get  away,  lad,'  says  Jesse,  and  I 
picked  up  my  hat  and  I  came  downstairs. 

*^Th'  recruiting  sergeant  were  waitin'  for  me  at  th'  cor- 
ner pubhc-house.  *Yo've  seen  your  sweetheart?'  says  he. 
*Yes,  I've  seen  her,'  says  I.  'WeU,  we'll  have  a  quart  now, 
and  you'll  do  your  best  to  forget  her,'  says  he,  beia'  one  o' 
them  smart,  bustlin'  chaps.  'Ay,  sergeant,*  says  I.  *  For- 
get her.'     And  I've  been  forgettin'  her  ever  since." 

He  threw  away  the  wilted  clump  of  white  violets  as  he 
spoke,  Ortheris  suddenly  rose  to  his  knees,  his  rifle  at  his 
shoulder,  and  peered  across  the  valley  in  the  clear  afternoon 
light.  His  chin  cuddled  the  stock,  and  there  was  a  twitch- 
ing of  the  muscles  of  the  right  cheek  as  he  sighted.  Private 
Stanley  Ortheris  was  engaged  on  his  business.  A  speck  of 
white  crawled  up  the  water-course. 

*'See  that  beggar?     Got  'im." 

Seven  hundred  yards  away,  and  a  full  two  hundred  down 
the  hillside,  the  deserter  of  the  Aurangabadis  pitched  for- 
ward, rolled  down  a  red  rock,  and  lay  very  still,  with  his 
face  in  a  clump  of  blue  gentians,  while  a  big  raven  flapped 
out  of  the  pine  wood  to  make  investigation. 

"That's  a  clean  shot,  little  man,"  said  Mulvaney. 

Learoyd  thoughtfully  watched  the  smoke  clear  away. 

"Happen  there  was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi'  him,  too,"  said 
he.  Ortheris  did  not  reply.  He  was  stariag  across  the  val* 
ley,  with  the  smile  of  the  artist  who  looks  on  the  completed 
work.     For  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 


WITHOUT   BENEFIT   OF  CLERGY 


I 

"But  if  it  be  a  girl?" 

' '  liord  of  my  life,  it  cannot  be !  I  have  prayed  for  so 
many  nights,  and  sent  gifts  to  Sheikh  Badl's  shrine  so  often, 
that  I  know  God  will  give  us  a  son — a  man-child  that  shall 
grow  into  a  man.  Think  of  this  and  be  glad.  My  mother 
shall  be  his  mother  till  I  can  take  him  again,  and  the  mullah 
of  the  Pattan  Mosque  shall  cast  his  nativity — God  send  he 
be  born  in  an  auspicious  hour ! — and  then,  and  then  thou  wilt 
never  weary  of  me,  thy  slave." 

''Since  when  hast  thou  been  a  slave,  my  queen?" 

*' Since  the  beginning — till  this  mercy  came  to  me.  How 
could  I  be  sure  of  thy  love  when  I  knew  that  I  had  been 
bought  with  silver?" 

"Kay,  that  was  the  dowry.     I  paid  it  to  thy  mother." 

"And  she  has  buried  it,  and  sits  upon  it  all  day  long  Hke 
a  hen.  What  talk  is  yours  of  dowry?  I  was  bought  as 
though  I  had  been  a  Lucknow  dancing-girl  instead  of  a 
child." 

"Art  thou  sorry  for  the  sale?" 

"I  have  sorrowed;  but  to-day  I  am  glad.  Thou  wilt 
never  cease  to  love  me  now?     Answer,  my  king." 

"Never — never.     No." 

"Not  even  though  the  mem-log — the  white  women  of  thy 
own  blood — love  thee?  And  remember,  I  have  watched  them 
driving  in  the  evening;  they  are  very  fair." 

"I  have  seen  fire-balloons  by  the  hundred,  I  have  seen 
the  moon,  and — then  I  saw  no  more  fire-balloons. ' ' 

Ameera  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed.  "Very  good 
talk,"  she  said.  Then,  with  an  assumption  of  great  stateli- 
ness:  "It  is  enough.  Thou  hast  my  permission  to  depart—* 
if  thou  wilt." 

(301) 


202  U/orks  of  E^adyard  li{lpliT)(l^ 

The  man  did  not  moYe.  He  was  sitting  on  a  low  red- 
lackered  couch  in  a  room  furnished  only  with  a  blue-and- 
white  floor-cloth,  some  rugs,  and  a  very  complete  collection 
of  native  cushions.  At  his  feet  sat  a  woman  of  sixteen,  and 
she  was  all  but  all  the  world  in  his  eyes.  By  every  rule  and 
law  she  should  have  been  otherwise,  for  he  was  an  English- 
man and  she  a  Mussulman's  daughter,  bought  two  years 
before  from  her  mother,  who,  being  left  without  money, 
would  have  sold  Ameera,  shriekingj  to  the  Prince  of  Dark- 
ness, if  the  price  had  been  sufficient. 

It  was  a  contract  entered  into  with  a  light  hearts  But 
even  before  the  girl  had  reached  her  bloom  she  came  to  fill 
the  greater  portion  of  John  Holden's  life.  For  her  and  the 
withered  hag  her  mother  he  had  taken  a  little  house  over- 
looking the  great  red- walled  city,  and  found,  when  the  mari- 
golds had  sprung  up  by  the  well  in  the  courtyard,  and 
Ameera  had  established  herself  according  to  her  own  ideas 
of  comfort,  and  her  mother  had  ceased  grumbling  at  the 
inadequacy  of  the  cooking-=places,  the  distance  from  the  daily 
market,  and  matters  of  housekeeping  in  general,  that  the 
house  was  to  him  his  home.  Any  one  could  enter  his  bach- 
elor's bungalow  by  day  or  night,  and  the  life  that  he  led 
there  was  an  unlovely  one.  In  the  house  in  the  city  his  feet 
only  could  pass  beyond  the  outer  courtyard  to  the  women's 
rooms;  and  when  the  big  wooden  gate  was  bolted  behind 
him  he  was  king  in  his  own  territory,  with  Ameera  for 
queen.  And  there  was  going  to  be  added  to  this  kingdom 
a  third  person,  whose  arrival  Holden  felt  inclined  to  resent. 
It  interfered  with  his  perfect  happiness.  It  disarranged  the 
orderly  peace  of  the  house  that  was  his  own.  But  Ameera 
was  wild  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  it,  and  her  mother 
not  less  so.  The  love  of  a  man,  and  particularly  a  white 
man,  was  at  the  best  an  inconstant  affair,  but  it  might,  both 
women  argued,  be  held  fast  by  a  baby's  hands.  '^And 
then,"  Ameera  would  alwa^^s  say — "then  he  will  never  care 
for  the  white  mem-log.     I  hate  them  all — I  hate  them  all!" 

"He  will  go  back  to  his  own  people  in  time,"  said  the 


U/itl^oiit  Benefit  of  <?ler($y  203 

mother,  "but,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  that  time  is  yet  afar 
off." 

Holden  sat  silent  on  the  couch,  thinking  of  the  future, 
and  his  thoughts  were  not  pleasant.  The  drawbacks  of  a 
double  life  are  manifold.  The  government,  with  singular 
care,  had  ordered  him  out  of  the  station  for  a  fortnight  on 
special  duty,  in  the  place  of  a  man  who  was  watching  by  the 
bedside  of  a  sick  wife.  The  verbal  notification  of  the  trans- 
fer had  been  edged  by  a  cheerful  remark  that  Holden  ought 
to  think  himself  lucky  in  being  a  bachelor  and  a  freeman. 
He  came  to  break  the  news  to  Ameera. 

*^It  is  not  good,"  she  said,  slowly,  "but  it  is  not  all  bad. 
There  is  my  mother  here,  and  no  harm  will  come  to  me — • 
unless,  indeed,  I  die  of  pure  joy.  Go  thou  to  thy  work,  and 
think  no  troublesome  thoughts.  When  the  days  are  done,  I 
believe  .  .  .  nay,  I  am  sure.  And — and  then  I  shall  lay 
him  in  thy  arms,  and  thou  wilt  love  me  forever.  The  train 
goes  to-night — at  midnight,  is  it  not?  Go  now,  and  do  not 
let  thy  heart  be  heavy  by  cause  of  me.  But  thou  wilt  not 
delay  in  returning !  Thou  wilt  not  stay  on  the  road  to  talk 
to  the  bold  white  mem-log!  Come  back  to  me  swiftly,  my 
life!" 

As  he  left  the  courtyard  to  reach  his  horse,  that  was 
tethered  to  the  gate-post,  Holden  spoke  to  the  white-haired 
old  watchman  who  guarded  the  house,  and  bid  him  under 
certain  contingencies  dispatch  the  fiUed-up  telegraph  form 
that  Holden  gave  him.  It  was  all  that  could  be  done,  and, 
with  the  sensations  of  a  man  who  has  attended  his  own 
funeral,  Holden  went  away  by  the  night  mail  to  his  exile. 
Every  hour  of  the  day  he  dreaded  the  arrival  of  the  tele- 
gram, and  every  hour  of  the  night  he  pictured  to  himself  the 
death  of  Ameera.  In  consequence,  his  work  for  the  state 
was  not  of  first-rate  quality,  nor  was  his  temper  toward  his 
colleagues  of  the  most  amiable.  The  fortnight  ended  without 
a  sign  from  his  home,  and,  torn  to  pieces  by  his  anxieties, 
Holden  returned  to  be  swallowed  up  for  two  precious  hours 
by  a  dinner  at  the  club,  wherein  he  heard,  as  a  man  hears  in 


204  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^ipIiQ<J 

a  swoon,  voices  telling  him  how  execrahly  he  had  performed 
the  other  man's  duties,  and  how  he  had  endeared  himself  to 
all  his  associates.  Then  he  fled  on  horseback  through  the 
night  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  There  was  no  answer  at 
first  to  his  blows  on  the  gate,  and  he  had  just  wheeled  his 
horse  round  to  kick  it  in,  when  Pir  Khan  appeared  with  a 
lantern  and  held  his  stirrup. 

**Has  aught  occurred?"  said  Holden. 

*'The  news  does  not  come  from  my  mouth,' Protector  of 
the  Poor,  but — "  He  held  out  his  shaking  hand,  as  befitted 
the  bearer  of  good  news  who  is  entitled  to  a  reward. 

Holden  hurried  through  the  courtyard.  A  light  burned 
in  the  upper  room.  His  horse  neighed  in  the  gateway,  and 
he  heard  a  pin-pointed  wail  that  sent  all  the  blood  into  the 
apple  of  his  throat.  It  was  a  new  Yoice,  but  it  did  not  prove 
that  Ameera  was  alive. 

'*  Who  is  there?^'  he  called  up  the  narrow  brick  staircase. 

There  was  a  cry  of  delight  from  Ameera,  and  then  the 
voice  of  her  mother,  tremulous  with  old  age  and  pride:  "We 
be  two  women,  and—the — man — ^thy  son." 

On  the  threshold  of  the  room  Holden  stepped  on  a  naked 
dagger  that  was  laid  there  to  avert  ill-luck^  and  it  broke  at 
the  hilt  under  his  impatient  heel. 

^'God  is  great!"  cooed  Ameera  in  the  half-light.  *'Thou 
hast  taken  his  misfortunes  on  thy  head." 

"Ay,  but  how  is  it  with  thee,  life  of  my  life?  Old  woman, 
how  is  it  with  her?" 

"She  has  forgotten  her  sufferings  for  joy  that  the  child  is 
bom.     There  is  no  harm;  but  speak  softly,"  said  the  mother. 

"It  only  needed  thy  presence  to  make  me  all  well,"  said 
Ameera.  "My  king,  thou  hast  been  very  long  away.  What 
gifts  hast  thou  for  me?  Ah  I  ah  I  It  is  I  that  bring  gifts 
this  time.  Look,  my  fife,  look!  Was  there  ever  such  a 
babe?  Nay,  I  am  too  weak  even  to  clear  my  arm  from 
him." 

"Rest,   then,  and  do  not  talk.     I  am  here,  hachheri^ 
(little  woman). 


U/itl^out  Bepefit  of  ^ler^y  205 

*' Well  said,  for  there  is  a  bond  and  a  heel-rope  Ypeecharee] 
between  us  now  that  nothing  can  break.  Look — canst  thou 
see  in  this  light?  He  is  without  spot  or  blemish,  ISTever  was 
such  a  man-child.  Ya  illah!  he  shall  be  a  pundit— no,  a 
trooper  of  the  queen.  And,  my  life,  dost  thou  love  me  as 
well  as  ever,  though  I  am  faint  and  sick  and  worn?  Answer 
truly." 

*'Yea.  I  love  as  I  have  loved,  with  all  my  souL  JJb 
still,  pearl,  and  rest." 

*' Then  do  not  go.  Sit  by  my  side  here— so.  Mother,. the 
lord  of  this  house  needs  a  cushion.  Bring  it."  There  was 
an  almost  imperceptible  movement  on  the  part  of  the  new 
life  that  lay  in  the  hollow  of  Ameera's  arm.  '"Aho!"  she 
said,  her  voice  breaking  with  love.  '*The  babe  is  a  champion 
from  his  birth.  He  is  kicking  me  in  the  side  with  mighty 
kicks.  Was  there  ever  such  a  babe?  And  he  is  ours  to  us— 
thine  and  mine.  Put  thy  hand  on  his  head,  but  carefuUyj 
for  he  is  very  young,  and  men  are  unskilled  in  such  matters." 

Y'ziVj  cautiously  Holden  touched  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
the  downy  head. 

*'He  is  of  the  Faith,"  said  Ameera;  '*for,  lying  here  in 
the  night-watches,  I  whispered  the  Gall  to  Prayer  and  the 
Profession  of  Faith  into  his  ears.  And  it  is  most  marvelous 
that  he  was  born  upon  a  Friday,  as  I  was  born.  Be  careful 
of  him,  my  life;  but  he  can  almost  grip  with  his  hands." 

Holden  found  one  helpless  little  hand  that  closed  feeblj 
on  his  finger.  And  the  clutch  ran  through  his  limbs  till  it 
settled  about  his  heart.  Till  then  his  sole  thought  had  heen 
for  Ameera.  He  began  to  realize  that  there  was  some  one 
else  in  the  world,  but  he  could  not  feel  that  it  was  a  veritable 
son  with  a  souL  He  sat  down  to  think,  and  Ameera  dozed 
lightly. 

"Get  hence,  sahib,"  said  her  mother,  under  her  breath. 
"It  is  not  good  that  she  should  find  you  here  on  waking. 
She  must  be  still." 

"I  go,"  said  Holden,  submissively.  "Here  be  rupees. 
See  that  my  haha  gets  fat  and  finds  all  that  he  needs." 


206  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  K^plii)^ 

The  cMnk  of  the  silver  roused  Ameera.  **I  am  his 
mother,  and  no  hirehng,"  she  said,  weakly.  "Shall  I  look 
to  him  more  or  less  for  the  sake  of  money?  Mother,  give  it 
back.     I  have  borne  my  lord  a  son. ' ' 

The  deep  sleep  of  weakness  came  upon  her  ahnost  before 
the  sentence  was  completed.  Holden  went  down  to  the 
courtyard  very  softly,  with  his  heart  at  ease.  Pir  Khan, 
the  old  watchman,  was  chuckling  with  delight. 

'*This  house  is  now  complete,"  he  said,  and  without 
further  comment  thrust  into  Holden's  hands  the  hilt  of  a 
saber  worn  many  years  ago,  when  Pir  Khan  served  the  queen 
in  the'pohce.  The  bleat  of  a  tethered  goat  came  from  the 
well-curb. 

"There  be  two,"  said  Pir  Khan — "two  goats  of  the  best. 
I  bought  them,  and  they  cost  much  money ;  and  since  there 
is  no  birth-party  assembled,  their  flesh  will  be  all  mine. 
Strike  craftily,  sahib.  'Tis  an  ill-balanced  saber  at  the  best. 
Wait  till  they  raise  their  heads  from  cropping  the  marigolds. " 

"And  why?"  said  Holden,  bewildered. 

"For  the  birth  sacrifice.  "What  else?  Otherwise  the 
child,  being  unguarded  from  fate,  may  die.  The  Protector 
of  the  Poor  knows  the  fitting  words  to  be  said." 

Holden  had  learned  them  once,  with  little  thought  that 
he  would  ever  say  them  in  earnest.  The  touch  of  the  cold 
saber-hilt  in  his  palm  turned  suddenly  to  the  clinging  grip  of 
the  child  upstairs — the  child  that  was  his  own  son— and  a 
dread  of  loss  filled  him. 

"Strike!"  said  Pir  Khan.  "!N"ever  life  came  into  the 
world  but  life  was  paid  for  it.  See,  the  goats  have  raised 
their  heads.     IsTow !     With  a  drawing  cut ! ' ' 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  Holden  cut  twice  as  he 
muttered  the  Mohammedan  prayer  that  runs:  "Almighty! 
In  place  of  this  my  son  I  offer  life  for  life,  blood  for  blood, 
head  for  head,  bone  for  bone,  hair  for  hair,  skin  for  skin." 
The  waiting  horse  snorted  and  bounded  in  his  pickets  at  the 
smell  of  the  raw  blood  that  spurted  over  Holden's  riding- 
boots. 


U/itl?oat  Benefit  of  <?Ier<$y  207 

"Well  smitten!"  said  Pir  Khan,  wiping  the  saber.  **A 
swordsman  was  lost  in  thee.  Go  with  a  light  heart,  heaven 
born.  I  am  thy  servant  and  the  servant  of  thy  son.  May 
the  Presence  live  a  thousand  years,  and  .  .  .  the  flesh  of  the 
goats  is  all  mine?" 

Pir  Khan  drew  back  richer  by  a  month's  pay.  Holden 
swung  himself  into  the  saddle  and  rode  off  through  the  low- 
hanging  wood  smoke  of  the  evening.  He  was  full  of  riotous 
exultation,  alternating  with  a  vast  vague  tenderness  directed 
toward  no  particular  object,  that  made  him  choke  as  he  bent 
over  the  neck  of  his  uneasy  horse.  "I  never  felt  like  this  in 
my  life,"  he  thought.  "I'll  go  to  the  club  and  pull  myself 
together. ' ' 

A  game  of  pool  was  beginning,  and  the  room  was  full 
of  men.  Holden  entered,  eager  to  get  to  the  light  and  the 
company  of  his  fellows,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice : 

**  'In  Baltimore  a-walking,  a  lady  I  did  meet.'  '^ 

*'Did  you?"  said  the  club  secretary  from  his  corner. 
"Did  she  happen  to  tell  you  that  your  boots  were  wringing 
wet.     Great  goodness,  man,  it's  blood!" 

"Bosh!"  said  Holden,  picking  his  cue  from  the  rack. 
"May  I  cut  in?  It's  dew.  I've  been  riding  through  high 
crops.     My  faith !  my  boots  are  in  a  mess,  though ! 

"  'And  if  it  be  a  girl,  she  shall  wear  a  wedding-ring; 
And  if  it  be  a  boy,  he  shall  fight  for  his  king ; 
With  his  dirk  and  his  cap,  and  his  little  jacket  blue, 
He  shall  walk  the  quarter-deck — '  " 

"Yellow  and  blue — green  next  player,"  said  the  marker, 
m.onotonously. 

"  'He  shall  walk  the  quarter-deck'^ — am  I  green,  marker? 
-—'he  shall  walk  the  quarter-deck'— ouch!  that's  a  bad  shot! 
—'as  his  daddy  used  to  do!'  " 

"I  don't  see  that  you  have  anything  to  crow  about,"  said 
a  zealous  junior  civiHan,  acidly.  "The  government  is  not 
exactly  pleased  with  your  work  when  you  relieved  Sanders." 


208  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplip*^ 

*'Does  that  mean  a  wigging  from  headquarters?"  said 
Holden,  with  an  abstracted  smile.     ''I  think  I  can  stand  it." 

The  talk  beat  up  round  the  ever-fresh  subject  of  each 
man's  work,  and  steadied  Holden  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  his 
dark,  empty  bungalow,  where  his  butler  received  him  as  one 
who  knew  all  his  affairs.  Holden  remained  awake  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  night,  and  his  dreams  were  pleasant  ones. 


II 

"How  old  is  he  now?" 

''Fa  illah!  What  a  man's  question!  He  is  all  but  six 
weeks  old ;  and  on  this  night  I  go  up  to  the  house-top  with 
thee,  my  life,  to  count  the  stars.  For  that  is  auspicious.  And 
he  was  born  on  a  Friday,  under  the  sign  of  the  Sun,  and  it 
has  been  told  to  me  that  he  will  outlive  us  both  and  get 
wealth.     Can  we  wish  for  aught  better,  beloved?" 

*' There  is  nothing  better.  Let  us  go  up  to  the  roof,  and 
thou  shalt  count  the  stars — but  a  few  only,  for  the  sky  is 
heavy  with  cloud." 

"The  winter  rains  are  late,  and  maybe  they  come  out  of 
season.  Come,  before  all  the  stars  are  hid.  I  have  put  on 
my  richest  jewels." 

"Thou  hast  forgotten  the  best  of  all." 

"Ai!  Ours.  He  comes  also.  He  has  never  yet  seen 
the  skies." 

Ameera  climbed  the  narrow  staircase  that  led  to  the  flat 
roof.  The  child,  placid  and  unwinking,  lay  in  the  hollow  of 
her  right  arm,  gorgeous  in  silver-fringed  muslin,  with  a  small 
skull-cap  on  his  head.  Ameera  wore  all  that  she  valued 
most.  The  diamond  nose-stud  that  takes  the  place  of  the 
Western  patch  in  drawing  attention  to  the  curve  of  the  nos- 
tril, the  gold  ornament  in  the  center  of  the  forehead  studded 
with  tallow-drop  emeralds  and  flawed  rubies,  the  heavy 
circlet  of  beaten  gold  that  was  fastened  round  her  neck  by 
the  softness  of  the  pure  metal,  and  the  chinking  curb-pat- 


U/itI?oufc  Bei^efifc  of  ^ler^Jy  209 

terned  silver  anklets  hanging  low  over  the  rosy  ankle-bone. 
She  was  dressed  in  jade-green  musHn,  as  befitted  a  daughter 
of  the  Faith,  and  from  shoulder  to  elbow  and  elbow  to  '  rrist 
ran  bracelets  of  silver  tied  with  floss  silk,  frail  glass  bangles 
slipped  over  the  wrist  in  proof  of  the  slenderness  of  the  hand, 
and  certain  heavy  gold  bracelets  that  had  no  part  in  her 
country's  ornaments,  but  since  they  were  Holden's  gift,  and 
fastened  with  a  cunning  European  snap,  delighted  her 
immensely. 

They  sat  down  by  the  low  white  parapet  of  tho  roofj 
overlooking  the  city  and  its  hghts. 

*'They  are  happy  down  there,"  said  Ameera.  *^But  I  do 
not  think  that  they  are  as  happy  as  we.  Kor  do  I  think 
the  white  mem-log  are  as  happy.     And  thou?'^ 

**I  know  they  are  not." 

*'How  dost  thou  know?" 

**They  give  their  children  over  to  the  nurses." 

**I  have  never  seen  that,"  said  Ameera,  with  a  sigh; 
**nor  do  I  wish  to  see.  Ahi!" — she  dropped  her  head  on 
Holden's  shoulder— "I  have  counted  forty  starSj  and  I  am 
tired.  Look  at  the  chUd,  love  of  my  life.  He  is  counting, 
too." 

The  baby  was  staring  with  round  eyes  at  tho  dark  of  the 
heavens.  Ameera  placed  him  in  Holden's  arms,  and  he  lay 
there  without  a  cry. 

*'What  shall  we  caU  him  among  ourselves?"  she  said. 
**Look!  Art  thou  ever  tired  of  looking?  He  carries  thy 
very  eyes!     But  the  mouth-—" 

"Is  thine,  most  dear.     Who  should  know  better  than  I?" 

*"Tis  such  a  feeble  mouth.  Oh,  so  small!  And  yet  it 
holds  my  heart  between  its  Hps.  Give  him  to  me  now.  He 
has  been  too  long  away." 

"Nay,  let  him  lie;  he  has  not  yet  begun  to  cry." 

"When  he  cries  thou  wilt  give  him  back,  eh?  What  a 
man  of  mankind  thou  art !  If  he  cried,  he  were  only  the 
dearer  to  me.  But,  my  life,  what  little  name  shall  we  give 
him?" 


310  U/orl^s  of  I^adyard  l^iplip^ 

The  small  body  lay  close  to  Holden's  heart.  It  was  ut- 
terly helpless  and  very  soft.  He  scarcely  dared  to  breathe 
for  fear  of  crushing  it.  The  caged  green  parrot,  that  is  re- 
garded as  a  sort  of  guardian  spirit  in  most  native  households, 
moved  on  its  perch  and  fluttered  a  drowsy  wing, 

'^ There  is  the  answer,"  said  Holden.  ''Mian  Mittu  has 
spoken.  He  shall  be  the  parrot.  When  he  is  ready  he  will 
talk  mightily,  and  run  about.  Mian  Mittu  is  the  parrot  in 
thy — in  the  Mussulman  tongue,  is  it  not?" 

"Why  put  me  so  far  off?"  said  Ameera,  fretfully.  "Let 
it  be  like  unto  some  English  name — but  not  wholly.  For  he 
is  mine. ' ' 

"Then  call  him  Tota,  for  that  is  likest  English." 

"Ay,  Tota;  and  that  is  still  the  parrot.  Forgive  me,  my 
lord,  for  a  minute  ago ;  but,  in  truth,  he  is  too  little  to  wear 
all  the  weight  of  Mian  Mittu  for  name.  He  shall  be  Tota — 
our  Tota  to  us.  Hearest  thou,  oh,  small  one?  Littlest,  thou 
art  Tota." 

She  touched  the  child's  cheek,  and,  he  waking,  wailed, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  return  him  to  his  mother,  who  soothed 
him  with  the  wonderful  rhyme  of  "^re  koko^  Ja  re  kokoP^ 
which  says: 

"Oh,  crow!     Go  crow!     Baby's  sleeping  sound. 
And  the  wild  plums  grow  in  the  jungle,  only  a  penny  a 

pound — 
Only  a  penny  a  pound,  Baha — only  a  penny  a  pound." 

Reassured  many  times  as  to  the  price  of  those  plums,  Tota 
cuddled  himself  down  to  sleep.  The  two  sleek  white  well- 
bullocks  in  the  courtyard  were  steadily  chewing  the  cud  of 
their  evening  meal;  old  Pir  Khan  squatted  at  the  head  of 
Holden's  horse,  his  police  saber  across  his  knees,  pulling 
drowsily  at  a  big  water-pipe  that  croaked  like  a  bull-frog  in 
a  pond.  Ameera's  mother  sat  spinning  in  the  lower  veranda, 
and  the  wooden  gate  was  shut  and  barred.  The  music  of  a 
marriage  procession  came  to  the  roof  above  the  gentle  hum 
of  the  city,  and  a  string  of  flying-foxes  crossed  the  face  of 
the  low  moon. 


U/it}?oiJt  B3i>efit  of  <?ler<5y  211 

-*I  have  prayed,"  said  Ameera,  after  a  long  pause,  with 
her  chin  in  her  hand— "I  have  prayed  for  two  things.  First, 
that  I  may  die  in  thy  stead;  if  thy  death,  is  demanded;  and 
iin  the  second,  that  I  may  die  in  the  place  of  the  child.  I 
have  prayed  to  the  Prophet  and  to  Beebee  Miriam.*  Think- 
est  thou  either  will  hear?" 

"From  thy  lips  who  would  not  hear  the  lightest  word?" 

*'I  asked  for  straight  talk,  and  thou  hast  given  me  sweet 
talk.     Will  my  prayers  be  heard?" 

''How  can  I  say?    God  is  very  good." 

"Of  that  I  am  not  sure.  Listen  now.  "When  I  die  or  the 
child  dies,  what  is  thy  fate?  Living,  thou  wilt  return  to  the 
bold  white  mem-log^  for  kind  calls  to  kind." 

"Not  always." 

"With  a  woman,  no.  With  a  man  it  is  otherwise.  Thou 
wilt  in  this  life,  later  on,  go  back  to  thine  own  folk.  That 
I  could  almost  endure,  for  I  should  be  dead.  But  in  thy 
very  death  thou  wilt  be  taken  away  to  a  strange  place  and  a 
paradise  that  I  do  not  know." 

"  Will  it  be  paradise?" 

"Surely;  for  what  God  would  harm  thee?  But  we  two 
-^I  and  the  child — shall  be  elsewhere,  and  we  cannot  come 
to  thee,  nor  canst  thou  come  to  us.  In  the  old  days,  before 
the  child  was  born,  I  did  not  think  of  these  things ;  but  now 
I  think  of  them  perpetually.  It  is  very  hard  talk." 
.  "It  will  fall  as  it  will  fall.  To-morrow  we  do  not  know, 
but  to-day  and  love  we  know  well.  Surely  we  are  happy 
now." 

"So  happy  that  it  were  well  to  make  our  happiness  as- 
sured. And  thy  Beebee  Miriam  should  listen  to  me ;  for  she 
is  also  a  woman.  But  then  she  would  envy  me —  It  is  not 
seemly  for  men  to  worship  a  woman." 

Holden  laughed  aloud  at  Ameera 's  little  spasm  of  jealousy. 

"Is  it  not  seemly?  Why  didst  thou  not  turn  me  from 
worship  of  thee,  then?" 

*The  Virgin  Mary. 


idl  '^  U/orl^s  of  P^udyard  l^iplip^ 


1 


"Thou  a  worshiper!  And  of  me!  My  king,  for  all  thy 
sweet  words,  well  I  know  that  I  am  thy  servant  and  thy 
slave,  and  the  dust  under  thy  feet.  And  I  would  not  have 
it  otherwise.     See ! ' ' 

Before  Holden  could  prevent  her  she  stooped  forward  and 
touched  his  feet ;  recovering  herself  with  a  little  laugh,  she 
hugged  Tota  closer  to  her  bosom.     Then,  almost  savagely: 

"Is  it  true  that  the  bold  white  mem-log  live  for  three 
times  the  length  of  my  life?  Is  it  true  that  they  make  their 
maxriages  not  before  they  are  old  women?'* 

*'They  marry  as  do  others— when  they  are  women.** 

*'That  I  know,  but  they  wed  when  they  are  twenty-five. 
Is  that  true?" 

"That  is  true."  . 

^^Ya  illah!  At  twenty-five!  Who  would  of  his  own 
win  take  a  wife  even  of  eighteen?  She  is  a  woman — ^aging 
every  hour.  Twenty-five!  I  shall  be  an  old  woman  at  that 
age,  and—  Those  mem-log  remain  young  forever*  How  I 
hate  them!" 


""What  have  they  to  do  with  us?" 


"I  cannot  tell.  I  know  only  that  there  may  now  be  alive 
on  this  earth  a  woman  ten  years  older  than  I  who  may  come 
to  thee  and  take  thy  love  ten  years  after  I  am  an  old  woman, 
gray-headed,  and  the  nui^e  of  Tota's  son.  That  is  unjust 
and  evil.     They  should  die  too." 

"IjTow,  for  all  thy  years  thou  art  a  child,  and  shalt  be 
picked  up  and  carried  down  the  staircase." 

"Tota!     Have  a  care  for  Tota,  mj  lord?    Thou,  at  least, 
art  as  foolish  as  any  babe!"     Ameera  tucked  Tota  out  ofi 
harm's  way  in  the  hollow  in  her  neck,  and  was  carric 
downstairs,  laughing,  in  Holden's  arms,  while  lota  opene( 
his  eyes  and  smiled,  after  the  manner  of  the  lesser  angels. 

He  was  a  silent  infant,  and  almost  before  Holden  coul( 
realize  that  he  was  in  the  world,  developed  into  a  small  gold4 
colorec.  godling  and  unquestioned  despot  of  the  house  over-' 
looking  the  city.  Those  were  months  of  absolute  happiness^ 
to   Holden   and  Ameera  —  happiness  withdrawn  from  the- 

m 


U/itlpout  Benefit  of  Qler($y  213 

world,  shut  in  behind  the  wooden  gate  that  Pir  Khan 
guarded.  By  day  Holden  did  his  work,  with  an  immense 
pity  for  such  as  were  not  so  fortunate  as  himself,  and  a 
sympathy  for  small  children  that  amazed  and  amused  many 
mothers  at  the  little  station  gatherings.  At  nightfall  he 
returned  to  Ameera — Ameera  full  of  the  wondrous  doings, 
of  Tota :  how  he  had  been  seen  to  clap  his  hands  together 
i  and  move  his  fingers  with  intention  and  purpose,  which  was 
manifestly  a  miracle ;  how,  later,  he  had  of  his  own  initiative 
crawled  out  of  his  low  bedstead  on  to  the  floor,  and  swayed 
on  both  feet  for  the  space  of  three  breaths,  "And  they  were 
long  breaths,  for  my  heart  stood  still  with  delight, ' '  said 
Ameera, 

Then  he  took  the  beasts  into  his  councils — the  weU-bul- 
!  locks,  the  little  gray  squirrels,  the  mongoose  that  lived  in 
;  a  hole  near  the  well,  and  especially  Mian  Mittu,  the  parrot, 
[  whose  tail  he  grievously  pulled,  and  Mian  Mittu  screamed 
;  till  Ameera  and  Holden  arrived. 

' '  Oh,  villain !  Child  of  strength !  This  to  thy  brother 
'  on  the  house-top !  Tobah,  tohah!  Me !  fie !  But  I  know  a 
\  charm  to  make  him  wise  as  Suleiman  and  Aflatoun.  *  Now 
?Iook,"  said  Ameera.  She  drew  from  an  embroidered  bag  a 
handful  of  almonds.  "See!  we  count  seven.  In  the  name 
of  God!"  She  placed  Mian  Mittu,  very  angry  and  rumpled, 
on  the  top  of  his  cage,  and,  seating  herself  between  the  babe 
and  the  bird,  cracked  and  peeled  an  almond  less  white  than 
her  teeth.  "This  is  a  true  charm,  my  life ;  and  do  not  laugh. 
See!  I  give  the  parrot  one  half  and  Tota  the  other."  Mian 
Mittu,  with  careful  beak,  took  his  share  from  between 
Ameera's  lips,  and  she  kissed  the  other  half  into  the  mouth 
of  the  child,  who  eat  it  slowly,  with  wondering  eyes.  "This 
I  will  do  each  day  of  seven,  and  without  doubt  he  who  is 
ours  will  be  a  bold  speaker  and  wise.  Eh,  Tota,  what  wilt 
thou  be  when  thou  art  a  man  and  I  am  gray-headed?"  Tota 
tucked  his  fat  legs  into  adorable  creases.     He  could  crawL 

*  Solomon  and  Plato. 


^■14  U^orks  of  r^udyard  l^iplip<$ 

but  lie  was  not  going  to  waste  the  spring  of  his  youth  in  idle 
speech.     He  wanted  Mian  Mittu's  tail  to  tweak. 

When  he  was  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  a  silver  belt— 
which,  with  a  magic  square  engraved  on  silver  and  hung 
round  his  neck,  made  up  the  greater  part  of  his  clothing — he 
staggered  on  a  perilous  journey  down  the  garden  to  Pir  Khan 
and  proffered  him  all  his  jewels  in  exchange  for  one  little 
ride  on  Holden's  horse.  He  had  seen  his  mother's  mother 
chaffering  with  peddlers  in  the  veranda.  Pir  Khan  wept,  set 
the  untried  feet  on  his  own  gray  head  in  sign  of  fealty,  and 
brought  the  bold  adventurer  to  his  mother's  arms,  vowing 
that  Tota  would  be  a  leader  of  men  ere  his  beard  was  grown. 

One  hot  evening,  while  he  sat  on  the  roof  between  his 
father  and  mother,  watching  the  never-ending  warfare  of 
the  kites  that  the  city  boys  flew,  he  demanded  a  kite  of  his 
own,  with  Pir  Khan  to  ily  it,  because  he  had  a  fear  of  deal- 
ing with  anything  larger  than  himself;  and  when  Hoi  den 
called  him  a  ''spark,"  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  answered 
slowly,  in  defense  of  his  new-found  individuahty :  ^^Hiim 
^park  nahin  hai.  Hum  admi  hai, ' '  (I  am  no  spark,  but 
a  man.) 

The  protest  made  Holden  choke,  and  devote  himself  very 
seriously  to  a  consideration  of  Tota's  future. 

He  need  hardly  have  taken  the  trouble.  The  delight  of 
that  life  was  too  perfect  to  endure.  Therefore  it  was  taken 
away,  as  many  things  are  taken  away  in  India,  suddenly 
and  without  warning.  The  little  lord  of  the  house,  as  Pir 
Khan  called  him,  grew  sorrowful  and  complained  of  pains, 
who  had  n^ver  known  the  meaning  of  pain.  Ameera,  wild 
with  terror,  watched  him  through  the  night,  and  in  the  dawn 
ing  of  the  second  day  the  life  was  shaken  out  of  him  by  f eve 
— the  seasonal  autumn  fever.  It  seemed  altogether  impos- 
sible that  he  could  die,  and  neither  Ameera  nor  Holden  at 
first  believed  the  evidence  of  the  body  on  the  bedstead.  Then 
Ameera  beat  her  head  against  the  wall,  and  would  have  flung 
herself  down  the  well  in  the  garden  had  Holden  not  restrained 
her  by  main  force.  . 


U/itl^out  Benefit  of  Qler($y  215 

One  mercy  only  was  granted  to  Holden.  He  rode  to  his 
office  in  broad  daylight,  and  found  waiting  him  an  unusually 
heavy  mail  that  demanded  concentrated  attention  and  hard 
work.  He  was  not,  however,  alive  to  this  kindness  of  the 
gods. 


Ill 

The  first  shock  of  a  bullet  is  no  more  than  a  brisk  pinch. 
The  wrecked  body  does  not  send  in  its  protest  to  the  soul  till 
ten  or  fifteen  seconds  later.  Then  comes  thirst,  throbbing, 
and  agony,  and  a  ridiculous  amount  of  screaming.  Holden 
realized  his  pain  slowly,  exactly  as  he  had  realized  his  happi- 
ness, and  with  the  same  imperious  necessity  for  hiding  all 
trace  of  it.  In  the  beginning  he  only  felt  that  there  had 
been  a  loss,  and  that  Ameera  needed  comforting  where  she 
sat  with  her  head  on  her  knees,  shivering  as  Mian  Mittu, 
from  the  house-top,  called  "Tota!  Tota!  Tota!"  Later  all 
his  world  and  the  daily  life  of  it  rose  up  to  hurt  him.  It 
was  an  outrage  that  any  one  of  the  children  at  the  band- 
stand in  the  evening  should  be  alive  and  clamorous  when 
his  own  child  lay  dead.  It  was  more  than  mere  pain  when 
one  of  them  touched  him,  and  stories  told  by  overf ond  fathers 
of  their  children's  latest  performances  cut  him  to  the  quick. 
He  could  not  declare  his  pain.  He  had  neither  help,  com- 
fort, nor  sympathy,  and  Ameera,  at  the  end  of  each  weary 
day,  would  lead  him  through  the  hell  of  self-questioning 
reproach  which  is  reserved  for  those  who  have  lost  a  child, 
and  believe  that  with  a  little — just  a  little — more  care  it 
might  have  been  saved.  There  are  not  many  hells  worse 
than  this,  but  he  knows  one  who  has  sat  down  temporarily 
to  consider  whether  he  is  or  is  not  responsible  for  the  death 
of  his  wife. 

''Perhaps,"  Ameera  would  say,  "I  did  not  take  su£&cient 
heed.  Did  I,  or  did  I  not?  The  sun  on  the  roof  that  day 
when  he  played  so  long  alone,  and  I  was — ahi!  braiding  my 
hair — it  may  be  that  the  sun  then  bred  the  fever.     If  I  had 


1 


S16  U/orKs  of  r^adyard  I^iplip^ 


warned  him  from  tlie  sun  lie  might  have  lived.  But,  oh, 
my  life,  say  that  I  am  guiltless!  Thou  knowest  that  I  loved 
him  as  I  love  thee !  Say  that  there  is  no  blame  on  me,  or  I 
shall  die— I  shall  die!" 

*' There  is  no  blame.  Before  God,  none.  It  was  written, 
and  how  could  we  do  aught  to  save?  What  has  been,  has 
been.     Let  it  go,  beloved." 

*'He  vras  all  my  heart  to  me.  How  can  I  let  the  thought 
go  when  my  arm  tells  me  every  night  that  he  is  not  here? 
Ahi!  ahif  Oh,  Tota^  come  back  to  me— come  back  again, 
and  let  us  be  all  together  as  it  was  before!" 

*  *  Peace !  peace !  For  thine  own  sake,  and  for  mine  also, 
if  thou  lovest  me,  rest." 

*' By  this  I  know  thou  dost  not  care;  and  how  shouldst 
thou?  The  white  men  have  hearts  of  stone  and  souls  of  iron. 
Oh,  that  I  had  married  a  man  of  mine  own  people — though 
he  beat  me- — and  had  never  eaten  the  bread  of  an  ahen!" 

"Am  I  an  alien,  mother  of  my  son?" 

''What  else,  sahib?  .  .  .  Oh,  forgive  me — forgive!  The 
death  has  driven  me  mad.  Thou  art  the  hfe  of  my  heart, 
and  the  light  of  my  eyes,  and  the  breath  of  my  life,  and — 
and  I  have  put  thee  from  me,  though  it  was  but  for  a  mo- 
ment. If  thou  goest  away,  to  whom  shall  I  look  for  help? 
Do  not  be  angry.  Indeed,  it  was  the  pain  that  spoke,  and 
not  thy  slave." 

"I  know— I  know.  We  be  two  who  were  three.  The 
greater  need,  therefore,  that  we  should  be  one." 

They  were  sitting  on  the  roof,  as  of  custom.  The  night 
was  a  wann  one  in  early  spring,  and  sheet-lightning  was 
dancing  on  the  horizon  to  a  broken  tune  played  by  far=off 
thunder.     Ameera  settled  herself  in  Holden's  arms. 

"The  dry  earth  is  lowing  like  a  cow  for  the  rain,  and  I — 
I  am  afraid.  It  was  not  like  this  when  we  counted  th^  stars. 
But  thou  lovest  me  as  much  as  before,  though  a  bond  is 
taken  away?    Answer." 

"I  love  more,  because  a  new  bond  has  come  out  of  the 
sorrow  that  we  have  eaten  together;  and  that  thou  knowest." 


U/itl?out  Benefit  of  Qler^y  217 

"Yea,  I  know,"  said  Ameera,  in  a  very  small  whisper. 
"But  it  is  good  to  hear  thee  say  so,  my  Hfe,  who  art  so  strong 
to  help.  I  will  be  a  child  no  more,  but  a  woman  and  an 
aid  to  thee.  Listen.  Give  me  my  sitar,  and  I  will  sing 
bravely." 

She  took  the  light  silver-studded  sitar^  and  began  a  song 
of  the  great  hero  Raja  Rasalu.  The  hand  failed  on  the 
strings,  the  tune  halted,  checked,  and  at  a  low  note  turned 
off  to  the  poor  little  nursery  rhyme  about  the  wicked  crow : 


(C    ( 


And  the  wild  plums  grow  in  the  jungle — 

Only  a  penny  a  pound, 

Only  a  penny  a  pound,  Baha — only — ' 


J  >> 


Then  came  the  tears  and  the  piteous  rebellion  against 
fate,  till  she  slept,  moaning  a  Httle  in  her  sleep,  with  the 
right  arm  thrown  clear  of  the  body,  as  though  it  protected 
something  that  was  not  there. 

It  was  after  this  night  that  life  became  a  Httle  easier  for 
Holden.  The  ever-present  pain  of  loss  drove  him  into  his 
work,  and  the  work  repaid  him  by  filling  up  his  mind  for 
eight  or  nine  hours  a  day.  Ameera  sat  alone  in  the  house 
and  brooded,  but  grew  happier  when  she  understood  that 
Holden  was  more  at  ease,  according  to  the  custom  of  women. 
They  touched  happiness  again,  but  this  time  with  caution. 

"It  was  because  we  loved  Tota  that  he  died.  The  jeal- 
ousy of  God  was  upon  us,"  said  Ameera.  "I  have  hung  up 
a  large  black  jar  before  our  window  to  turn  the  Evil  Eye 
from  us,  and  we  must  make  no  protestations  of  delight,  but 
go  softly  xm.derneath  the  stars,  lest  God  find  us  out.  Is 
that  not  good  talk,  worthless  one?" 

She  had  shifted  the  accent  of  the  word  that  means  "be- 
loved," in  proof  of  the  sincerity  of  her  purpose.  But  the 
kiss  that  followed  the  new  christening  was  a  thing  that  any 
deity  might  have  envied.  They  went  about  henceforth  say- 
ing: "It  is  naught — it  is  naught,"  and  hoping  that  all  the 
powers  heard. 

T^i^e  powers  were  busy  on  other  things.  They  had  allowed 
Vol.  3.  10 


218  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^J 

thirty  million  people  four  years  of  plenty,  wherein  men  fed 
well  and  the  crops  were  certain  and  the  birth-rate  rose  year 
by  year ;  the  districts  reported  a  purely  agricultural  popula- 
tion varying  from  nine  hundred  to  two  thousand  to  the  square 
mile  of  the  overburdened  earth.  It  was  time  to  make  room. 
And  the  Member  of  the  Lower  Tooting,  wandering  about 
India  in  top-hat  and  frock-coat,  talked  largely  of  the  benefits 
of  British  rule,  and  suggested  as  the  one  thing  needful  the 
estabhshment  of  a  duly  quahfied  electoral  system  and  a 
general  bestowal  of  the  franchise.  His  long-suffering  hosts 
smiled  and  made  him  welcome,  and  when  he  paused  to 
admire,  with  pretty  picked  words,  the  blossom  of  the  blood- 
red  dhak-tree,  that  had  flowered  untimely  for  a  sign  of  the 
sickness  that  was  coming,  they  smiled  more  than  ever. 

It  was  the  Deputy  Commissioner  of  Kot-Kumharsen,  stay- 
ing at  the  club  for  a  day,  who  lightly  told  a  tale  that  made 
Holden's  blood  run  cold  as  he  overheard  the  end. 

"He  won't  bother  any  one  any  more.     Never  saw  a  man 

so  astonished  in  my  life.     By  Jove !    I  thought  he  meant  to 

ask  a  question  in  the  House  about  it.     Fellow-passenger  in 

his  ship — dined  next  him — bowled  over  by  cholera,  and  died 

in'  eighteen  hours.  You  needn't  laugh,  you  fellows.  The 
Member  for  Lower  Tooting  is  awfully  angry  about  it;   but 

he's  more  scared.     I  think  he's  going  to  take  his  enlightened 

self  out  of  India." 

"I'd  give  a  good  deal  if  he  were  knocked  over.  It  might 
keep  a  few  vestrymen  of  his  kidney  to  their  parish.  But 
what's  this  about  cholera?  It's  full  early  for  anything  of 
that  kind,"  said  a  warden  of  an  unprofitable  salt-lick. 

"Dunno,"  said  the  deputy  commissioner,  reflectively. 
**We've  got  locusts  with  us.  There's  sporadic  cholera  all 
along  the  north  —  at  least,  we're  calling  it  sporadic  for 
decency's  sake.  The  spring  crops  are  short  in  G.Ye  dis- 
tricts, and  nobody  seems  to  know  where  the  winter  rains 
are.  It's  nearly  March  now.  I  don't  want  to  scare  any- 
body, but  it  seems  to  me  that  ISTature's  going  to  audit  her 
accounts  with  a  big  red  pencil  this  summer." 


Drawn  by  C.  D.  Graves. 


"  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  cotdd  die,  and  neither  Am,eera  nor  Holden  at  first 
believed  the  evidence  of  the  body  on  the  bed.''"' 

"Without  Benefit  of  Clergy— Vol  III.,  p.  214. 


U/itl?out  Benefit  of  <?ler<$y  319 

"Just  when  I  wanted  to  take  leave,  too,'*  said  a  voice 
across  the  room. 

"There  won't  be  much  leave  this  year,  but  there  ought  to 
be  a  great  deal  of  promotion.  I've  come  in  to  persuade  the 
government  to  put  my  pet  canal  on  the  list  of  famine-relief 
works.  It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  good.  I  shall  get 
that  canal  finished  at  last." 

"Is  it  the  old  programme,  then,"  said  Holden — -"famine, 
fever,  and  cholera?" 

"Oh,  no!  Only  local  scarcity  and  an  unusual  prevalence 
of  seasonal  sickness.  You'll  find  it  aU  in  the  reports  if  you 
live  till  next  year.  You're  a  lucky  chap.  You  haven't  got 
a  wife  to  put  you  out  of  harm's  way.  The  hill-stations  ought 
to  be  full  of  women  this  year." 

"I  think  you're  inclined  to  exaggerate  the  talk  in  the 
bazaars, "  said  a  young  civilian  in  the  secretariat,  "^ow, 
I  have  observed — " 

"I  daresay  you  have,"  said  the  deputy  commissioner, 
"but  you've  a  great  deal  more  to  observe,  my  son.  In  the 
meantime,  I  wish  to  observe  to  you — "  And  he  drew  him 
aside  to  discuss  the  construction  of  the  canal  that  was  so  dear 
to  his  heart. 

Holden  went  to  his  bungalow,  and  began  to  imderstand 
that  he  was  not  alone  in  the  world,  and  also  that  he  was 
afraid  for  the  sake  of  another,  which  is  the  most  soid-satisfy- 
ing  fear  known  to  man. 

Two  ruonths  later,  as  the  deputy  had  foretold,  Nature 
began  to  audit  her  accounts  with  a  red  pencil.  On  the  heels 
of  the  spring  reapings  came  a  cry  for  bread,  and  the  govern- 
ment, which  had  decreed  that  no  man  should  die  of  want, 
sent  wheat.  Then  came  the  cholera  from  all  four  quarters 
of  the  compass.  It  struck  a  pilgrim  gathering  of  half  a  mil- 
lion at  a  sacred  shrine.  Many  died  at  the  feet  of  their  god, 
the  others  broke  and  ran  over  the  face  of  the  land,  carrying 
the  pestilence  with  them.  It  smote  a  walled  city  and  killed 
two  hundred  a  day.  The  people  crowded  the  trains,  hang- 
ing on  to  the  foot-boards  and  squatting  on  the  roofs  of  the 


^2(1  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  \{ipl\T)<^ 

carriages ;  and  the  cholera  followed  them,  for  at  each  station 
they  dragged  out  the  dead  and  the  dying  on  the  platforms 
reeking  of  lime-wash  and  carbolic  acid.  They  died  by  the 
roadside,  and  the  horses  of  the  Englishmen  shied  at  the 
corpses  in  the  grass.  The  rains  did  not  come,  and  the  earth 
turned  to  iron  lest  man  should  escape  by  hiding  in  her.  The 
English  sent  their  wives  away  to  the  Hills,  and  went  about 
their  work,  coming  forward  as  they  were  bidden  to  fill  the 
gaps  in  the  fighting  line.  Holden,  sick  with  fear  of  losing 
his  chiefest  treasure  on  earth,  had  done  his  best  to  persuade 
Ameera  to  go  away  with  her  mother  to  the  Himalayas. 

"Why  should  I  go?"  said  she  one  evening  on  the  roof. 

*' There  is  sickness,  and  the  people  are  dying,  and  all  the 
white  mem-log  have  gone." 

''AH  of  them?" 

*'A11 — unless,  perhaps,  there  remain  some  old  scald-head 
who  vexes  her  husband's  heart  by  running  risk  of  death." 

"Nay;  who  stays  is  my  sister,  and  thou  must  not  abuse 
her,  for  I  will  be  a  scald-head  too.  I  am  glad  all  the  bold 
white  mein-log  are  gone." 

"Do  I  speak  to  a  woman  or  a  babe?  Go  to  the  Hills,  and 
I  will  see  to  it  that  thou  goest  like  a  queen's  daughter.  Think, 
child !  In  a  red-lackered  bullock-cart,  veiled  and  curtained, 
with  brass  peacocks  upon  the  pole  and  red-cloth  hangings.  I 
will  send  two  orderlies  for  guard,  and — " 

"Peace !  Thou  art  the  babe  in  speaking  thus.  What  use 
are  those  toys  to  me?  He  would  have  patted  the  bullocks 
and  played  with  the  housings.  For  his  sake,  perhaps — thou 
hast  made  me  very  English — I  might  have  gone.  Now  I 
will  not.     Let  the  mem-log  run."  . 

"Their  husbands  are  sending  them,  beloved." 

"Yery  good  talk.  Since  when  hast  thou  been  my  hus- 
band to  tell  me  what  to  do?  I  have  but  borne  thee  a  son. 
Thou  art  only  all  the  desire  of  my  soul  to  me.  How  shall  I 
depart  when  I  know  that  if  evil  befall  thee  by  the  breadth 
of  so  much  as  my  littlest  finger-nail — is  that  not  small? — I 
should  be  aware  of  it  though  I  were  in  Paradise?     And  here. 


UAitl^out  Benefit  of  ^ler^y  321 

this  summer  thou  mayest  die — ai,  janee,  die ! — and  in  dying 
they  might  call  to  tend  thee  a  white  woman,  and  she  would 
rob  me  in  the  last  of  thy  love." 

*'But  love  is  not  bom  in  a  moment,  or  on  a  deathbed." 

*'What  dost  thou  know  of  love,  stone-heart?  She  would 
take  thy  thanks  at  least,  and,  by  God  and  the  Prophet  and 
Beebee  Miriam,  the  mother  of  thy  Prophet,  that  I  will  never 
endure.  My  lord  and  my  love,  let  there  be  no  more  foolish 
talk  of  going'  away.  Where  thou  art,  I  am.  It  is  enough." 
She  put  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  a  hand  on  his  mouth. 

There  are  not  many  happinesses  so  complete  as  those  that 
are  snatched  under  the  shadow  of  the  sword.  They  sat  to- 
gether and  laughed,  calling  each  other  openly  by  every  pet 
name  that  could  move  the  wrath  of  the  gods.  The  city  be- 
low them  was  locked  up  in  its  own  torments.  Sulphur-fires 
blazed  in  the  streets;  the  conches  in  the  Hindu  temples 
screamed  and  bellowed,  for  the  gods  were  inattentive  in 
those  days.  There  was  a  service  in  the  great  Mohammedan 
shrine,  and  the  call  to  prayer  from  the  minarets  was  almost 
unceasing.  They  heard  the  wailing  in  the  houses  of  the 
dead,  and  once  the  shriek  of  a  mother  who  had  lost  a  child 
and  was  calling  for  its  return.  In  the  gray  dawn  they  saw 
the  dead  borne  out  through  the  city  gates,  each  litter  with 
its  own  little  knot  of  mourners.  Wherefore  they  kissed  each 
other  and  shivered. 

It  was  a  red  and  heavy  audit,  for  the  land  was  very  sick 
and  needed  a  little  breathing-space  ere  the  torrent  of  cheap 
Hfe  should  flood  it  anew.  The  children  of  immature  fathers 
and  undeveloped  mothers  made  no  resistance.  They  were 
cowed  and  sat  still,  waiting  till  the  sword  should  b  '■  sheathed 
in  November,  if  it  were  so  willed.  There  were  gaps  among 
the  English,  but  the  gaps  were  filled.  The  work  of  superin- 
tending famine  rehef,  cholera-sheds,  medicine  distribution, 
and  what  little  sanitation  was  possible,  went  forward  because 
it  was  so  ordered. 

Holden  had  been  told  to  hold  himself  in  readiness  to  move 
to  replace  the  next  man  who  should  fall.     There  were  twelve 


222  U/orKs  of  F(udyard  Kiplii?^ 

hours  in  eacli  day  when  he  could  not  see  Ameera,  and  she 
might  die  in  three.  He  was  considering  what  his  pain  would 
be  if  he  could  not  see  her  for  three  months,  or  if  she  died  out 
of  his  sight.  He  was  absolutely  certain  that  her  death  would 
be  demanded — -so  certain  that,  when  he  looked  up  from  the 
telegram  and  saw  Pir  Khan  breathless  in  the  doorway,  he 
laughed  aloud,  "And?" — said  he. 

"When  there  is  a  cry  in  the  night  and  the  spirit  flutters 
into  the  throat,  who  has  a  charm  that  will  restore?  Come 
swiftly,  heaven  born.     It  is  the  black  cholera.  ^^ 

Holden  galloped  to  his  home.  The  sky  was  heavy  with 
clouds,  for  the  long-deferred  rains  were  at  hand,  and  the 
heat  was  stifling.  Ameera' s  mother  met  him  in  the  court- 
yard, whimpering:  "She  is  dying.  She  is  nursing  herself 
into  death.     She  is  all  but  dead.     What  shall  I  do,  sahib?" 

Ameera  was  lying  in  the  room  in  which  Tota  had  been 
born.  She  made  no  sign  when  Holden  entered,  because  the 
human  soul  is  a  very  lonely  thing,  and  when  it  is  getting 
ready  to  go  away  hides  itself  in  a  misty  borderland  where 
the  living  may  not  follow.  The  black  cholera  does  its  work 
quietly  and  without  explanation.  Ameera  was  being  thrust 
out  of  life  as  though  the  Angel  of  Death  had  himself  put  his 
hand  upon  her.  The  quick  breathing  seemed  to  show  that 
she  was  either  afraid  or  in  pain,  but  neither  eyes  nor  mouth 
gave  any  answer  to  Holden's  kisses.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  said  or  done.  Holden  could  only  wait  and  suffer.  The 
first  drops  of  the  rain  began  to  fall  on  the  roof,  and  he  could 
hear  shouts  of  joy  in  the  parched  city. 

The  soul  came  back  a  little  and  the  lips  moved.  Holden 
bent  dowr  fco  Hsten.  "Keep  nothing  of  mine,"  said  Ameera. 
**Take  no  hair  from  my  head.  She  would  make  thee  burn 
it  later  on.  That  flame  I  should  feel.  Lower!  Stoop  lower! 
Remember  only  that  I  was  thine  and  bore  thee  a  son.  Though 
thou  wed  a  white  woman  to-morrow,  the  pleasure  of  taking 
in  thy  arms  thy  flrst  son  is  taken  from  thee  forever.  Re- 
member me  when  thy  son  is  born — the  one  that  shall  carry 
thy  name  before  all  men.     His  misfortunes  be  on  my  head. 


U/itl^out  Benefit  of  Qler^y  223 

I  bear  witness — I  bear  witness"— the  lips  were  forming  the 
words  on  his  ear — "that  there  is  no  God  but — thee,  beloved." 

Then  she  died.  Holden  sat  still,  and  thought  of  any 
kind  was  taken  from  him  till  he  heard  Ameera's  mother  lift 
the  curtain. 

"Is  she  dead,  sahib?" 

"She  is  dead." 

"Then  I  will  mourn,  and  afterward  take  an  inventory  of 
the  furniture  in  this  house ;  for  that  will  be  mine.  The  sahib 
does  not  mean  to  resume  it.  It  is  so  little,  so  very  little, 
sahib,  and  I  am  an  old  woman.     I  would  like  to  He  softly." 

"For  the  mercy  of  God,  be  silent  a  while!  Go  out  and 
mourn  where  I  cannot  hear." 

"Sahib,  she  will  be  buried  in  four  hours." 

"I  know  the  custom.  I  shall  go  ere  she  is  taken  away. 
That  matter  is  in  thy  hands.  Look  to  it  that  the  bed — on 
which — on  which — she  lies — " 

"Aha!  That  beautiful  red-lackered  bed.  I  have  long 
desired — " 

" — That  the  bed  is  left  here  untouched  for  my  disposal. 
All  else  in  the  house  is  thine.  Hire  a  cart,  take  everything, 
go  hence,  and  before  sunrise  let  there  be  nothing  in  this  house 
but  that  which  I  have  ordered  thee  to  respect." 

' '  I  am  an  old  woman.  I  would  stay  at  least  for  the  days  of 
mourning,  and  the  rains  have  just  broken.  Whither  shall  I  go?' ' 

"What  is  that  to  me?  My  order  is  that  there  is  a  going. 
The  house-gear  is  worth  a  thousand  rupees,  and  my  orderly 
shall  bring  thee  a  hundred  rupees  to-night. ' ' 

"That  is  very  little.     Think  of  the  cart-hire." 

"It  shall  be  nothing  unless  thou  goest,  and  with  speed. 
Oh,  woman,  get  hence,  and  leave  me  to  my  dead!" 

The  mother  shuffled  down  the  staircase,  and  in  her  anx- 
iety to  take  stock  of  the  house-fittings  forgot  to  mourn. 
Holden  stayed  by  Ameera's  side,  and  the  rain  roared  on  the 
roof.  He  could  not  think  connectedly  by  reason  of  the  noise, 
though  he  made  many  attempts  to  do  so.  Then  four  sheeted 
ghosts  glided   dripping  into  the  room   and   stared  at   him 


224  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  li{\pllT)^ 

tlirougli  their  veils.  They  were  the  washers  of  the  dead. 
Holden  left  the  room  and  went  out  to  his  horse.  He  had 
come  in  a  dead,  stifling  calm,  through  ankle-deep  dust.  He 
found  the  courtyard  a  rain-lashed  pond  aHve  with  frogs,  a 
torrent  of  yellow  water  ran  under  the  gate,  and  a  roaring 
wind  drove  the  bolts  of  the  rain  like  buckshot  against  the 
mud  walls.  Pir  Khan  was  shivering  in  his  little  hut  by  the 
gate,  and  the  horse  was  stamping  uneasily  in  the  water. 

"I  have  been  told  the  sahib's  order,"  said  he.  **It  is 
well.  This  house  is  now  desolate.  I  go  also,  for  my  monkey 
face  would  be  a  reminder  of  that  which  has  been.  Concern- 
ing the  bed,  I  will  bring  that  to  thy  house  yonder  in  the 
morning.  But  remember,  sahib,  it  will  be  to  thee  as  a  knife 
turned  in  a  green  wound.  I  go  upon  a  pilgrimage  and  I 
will  take  no  money.  I  have  grown  fat  in  the  protection  of 
the  Presence,  whose  sorrow  is  my  sorrow.  For  the  last  time 
I  hold  his  stirrup." 

He  touched  Holden's  foot  with  both  hands,  and  the  horse 
sprung  out  into  the  road,  where  the  creaking  bamboos  were 
whipping  the  sky  and  all  the  frogs  were  chuckling.  Holden 
could  not  see  for  the  rain  in  his  face.  He  put  his  hands  before 
his  eyes  and  muttered^   ^^Oh,  you  brute!     You  utter  brute!" 

The  news  of  his  trouble  was  already  in  his  bungalow. 
He  read  the  knowledge  in  his  butler's  eyes  when  Ahmed 
Khan  brought  in  food,  and  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  his 
life  laid  a  hand  upon  his  master's  shoulder,  saying:  **Eat, 
sahib,  eat.  Meat  is  good  against  sorrow.  I  also  have  known. 
Moreover,  the  shadows  come  and  go,  sahib.  The  shadows 
come  and  go.     These  be  curried  eggs." 

Holden  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep.  The  heavens  sent 
down  eight  inches  of  rain  in  that  night  and  scoured  the  earth 
clean.  The  waters  tore  down  walls,  broke  roads,  and  washed 
open  the  shallow  graves  in  the  Mohammedan  burying-ground. 
All  next  day  it  rained,  and  Holden  sat  still  in  his  house  con- 
sidering his  sorrow.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he 
received  a  telegram  which  said  only:  **Ricketts,  Myndonie. 
Dying.     Holden.     Reheve,     Immediate."    Then  he  thought 


U/itl?otJt  Benefit  of  <?ler($y  225 

that  before  he  departed  he  would  look  at  the  house  wherein 
he  had  been  master  and  lord.  There  was  a  break  in  the 
weather.  The  rank  earth  steamed  with  vapor,  and  Holden 
was  vermilion  from  head  to  heel  with  the  prickly-heat  born 
of  sultry  moisture. 

He  found  that  the  rains  had  torn  down  the  mud-pillars  of 
the  gateway,  and  the  heavy  wooden  gate  that  had  guarded 
his  life  hung  drunkenly  from  one  hinge.  There  was  grass 
three  inches  high  in  the  courtyard;  Pir  Khan's  lodge  was 
empty,  and  the  sodden  thatch  sagged  between  the  beams.  A 
gray  squirrel  was  in  possession  of  the  veranda,  as  if  the  house 
had  been  untenanted  for  thirty  years  instead  of  three  days. 
Ameera's  mother  had  removed  everything  except  some  mil- 
dewed matting.  The  tick- tick  of  the  little  scorpions  as  they 
hurried  across  the  floor  was  the  only  sound  in  the  house. 
Ameera's  room  and  that  other  one  where  Tota  had  lived  were 
heavy  with  mildew,  and  the  narrow  staircase  leading  to  the 
roof  was  streaked  and  stained  with  rain-borne  mud.  Holden 
saw  all  these  things,  and  came  out  again  to  meet  in  the  road 
Durga  Dass,  his  landlord— portly,  affable,  clothed  in  white 
muslin,  and  driving  a  C-spring  buggy.  He  was  overlooking 
his  property,  to  see  how  the  roofs  withstood  the  stress  of  the 
first  rains. 

"I  have  heard,"  said  he,  "you  will  not  take  this  place  any 
more,  sahib?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 
"Perhaps  I  shall  let  it  again." 
"Then  I  will  keep  it  on  while  I  am  away." 
Durga  Dass  was  silent  for  some  time.     "You  shall  not 
take  it  on,  sahib,"  he  said.     "When  I  was  a  young  man  I 
also —    But  to-day  I  am  a  member  of  the  municipality.     Ho  ! 
bo !     No.     When  the  birds  have  gone,  what  need  to  keep  the 
nest?     I  will  have  it  pulled  down ;    the  timber  will  sell  for 
something  always.     It  shall  be  pulled  down,  and  the  munic- 
ipality shall  make  a  road  across,  as  they  desire,  from  the 
burning-ghat   to  the   city   wall.     So  that  no  man  may  say 
where  this  house  stood." 


AMERICAN    NOTES 


RUDYARD   KIPLING    AT   THE   GOLDEN 

GATE 


CUTTING  NOTES  ON  AMERICA  BY  THE  INDIA-ENGLISH  AUTHOR 
—MAD  ABOUT  COPYRIGHT— INCISIVE  JABS  AT  THE  HOTEL 
CLERK,  CATARRH,  AND  OTHER  DEFECTS  IN  AMERICAN 
CHARACTER 

* 'Serene,  indifferent  to  fate, 
Thou  (fittest  at  the  Western  Gate; 
Thou  seest  the  white  seas  fold  their  tents. 
Oh,  warder  of  two  continents ; 
Thou  drawest  all  things  small  and  great, 
To  thee,  beside  the  Western  Gate." 

This  is  what  Bret  Harte  has  written  of  the  great  city  of 
San  Francisco,  and  for  the  past  fortnight  I  have  been  won- 
dering what  made  him  do  it. 

There  is  neither  serenity  nor  indifference  to  be  found  in 
these  parts;  and  evil  would  it  be  for  the  continents  whose 
wardship  were  intrusted  to  so  reckless  a  guardian. 

Behold  me  pitched  neck-and-crop  from  twenty  days  of 
the  high  seas  into  the  whirl  of  California,  deprived  of  any 
guidance  and  left  to  draw  my  own  conclusions.  Protect  me 
from  the  wrath  of  an  outraged  community  if  these  letters  be 
ever  read  by  American  eyes.  San  Francisco  is  a  mad  city — 
inhabited  for  the  most  part  by  perfectly  insane  people,  whose 
women  are  of  a  remarkable  beauty. 

When  the  '*City  of  Pekin"  steamed  through  the  Golden 
(226) 


/Imerieap  flotes  227 

Gate  I  saw  with  great  joy  that  the  block  house  which  guarded 
the  mouth  of  the  ''finest  harbor  in  the  world,  sir,"  could  be 
silenced  by  two  gunboats  from  Hong  Kong  with  safety, 
comfort,  and  dispatch.  Also,  there  was  not  a  single  Amer- 
ican vessel  of  war  in  the  harbor. 

This  may  sound  blood-thirsty ;  but  remember,  I  had  come 
with  a  grievance  upon  me™ the  grievance  of  the  pirated 
English  books. 

SEES   A   REPORTER 

Then  a  reporter  leaped  aboard  and  ere  I  could  gasp  held 
me  in  his  toils.  He  pumped  me  exhaustively  while  I  was 
getting  ashore,  demanding  of  all  things  in  the  world  news 
about  Indian  journalism.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  enter  a 
new  land  with  a  new  lie  on  your  lips.  I  spoke  the  truth  to 
the  evil-minded  Custom  House  man  who  turned  my  most 
sacred  raiment  on  a  floor  composed  of  stable  refuse  and  pine 
splinters ;  but  the  reporter  overwhelmed  me  not  so  much  by 
his  poignant  audacity  as  his  beautiful  ignorance.  I  am  sorry 
now  that  I  did  not  tell  him  more  lies  as  I  passed  into  a  city 
of  three  hundred  thousand  white  men.  Think  of  it !  Three 
hundred  thousand  white  men  and  women  gathered  in  one 
spot,  walking  upon  real  pavements  in  front  of  plate-glass 
windowed  shops,  and  talking  something:  that  at  first  hearing 
was  not  very  different  from  English.  It  was  only  when  I 
had  tangled  myself  up  in  a  hopeless  maze  of  small  wooden 
houses,   dust,    street   refuse   and   children  who  played  with 

j,    empty  kerosene  tins,  that  I  discovered  the  difference  of  speech. 

1^  "You  want  to  go  to  the  Palace  Hotel?"  said  an  affable 

youth  on  a  dray.  ' '  What  in  hell  are  you  doing  here,  then? 
This  is  about  the  lowest  ward  in  the  city.     Go  six  blocks 

I  north  to  corner  of  Geary  and  Markey,  then  walk  around  till 
you  strike  corner  of  Gutter  and  Sixteenth,  and  that  brings 
you  there." 

I  do  not  vouch  for  the  literal  accuracy  of  these  directions, 
quoting  but  from  a  disordered  memory. 

"Amen,"  I  said.     "But  who  am  I  that  I  should  strike  the 


228  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplii^^ 

corners  of  such  as  you  name?  Peradventure  tliej  be  gentle- 
men of  repute,  and  might  hit  back.  Bring  it  down  to  dots, 
my  son." 

I  thought  he  would  have  smitten  me,  but  he  didn't.  He 
explained  that  no  one  ever  used  the  word  street,  and  that 
every  one  was  supposed  to  know  how  the  streets  ran,  for 
sometimes  the  names  were  upon  the  lamps  and  sometimes 
they  weren't.  Fortified  with  these  directions,  I  proceeded 
till  I  found  a  mighty  street,  full  of  sumptuous  buildings  four 
and  five  stories  high,  but  paved  with  rude  cobblestones,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  year  1. 

THE   CABLE   CAR 

Here  a  tram-car,  without  any  visible  means  of  support, 
slid  stealthily  behind  me  and  nearly  struck  me  in  the  back. 
That  was  the  famous  cable  car  of  San  Francisco,  which  runs 
by  gripping  an  endless  wire  rope  sunk  in  the  ground,  and  of 
which  I  will  tell  you  more  anon.  A  hundred  yards  further 
there  was  a  slight  commotion  in  the  street,  a  gathering  to- 
gether of  three  or  four,  something  that  glittered  as  it  moved 
very  swiftly.  A  ponderous  Irish  gentleman,  with  priest's 
cords  in  his  hat  and  a  small  nickel-plated  badge  on  his  fat 
bosom,  emerged  from  the  knot  supporting  a  Chinaman  who 
had  been  stabbed  in  the  eye  and  was  bleeding  like  a  pig.  The 
bystanders  went  their  ways,  and  the  Chinaman,  assisted  by 
the  policeman,  his  own.  Of  course  this  was  none  of  my 
business,  but  I  rather  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened  to 
the  gentleman  who  had  dealt  the  stab.  It  said  a  great  deal 
for  the  excellence  of  the  municipal  arrangement  of  the  town 
that  a  surging  crowd  did  not  at  once  block  the  street  to  see 
what  was  going  forward.  I  was  the  sixth  man  and  the  last 
who  assisted  at  the  performance,  and  my  curiosity  was  six 
times  the  greatest.     Indeed,  I  felt  ashamed  of  showing  it, 

A  CRACK  AT  THE  HOTEL  CLERK 

There  were  no  more  incidents  till  I  reached  the  Palace 
Hotel,  a  seven-storied  warren  of  humanity  with  a  thousand 


/imerieai)  f/otes  229 

rooms  in  it.  All  the  travel  books  will  tell  you  about  hotel 
arrangements  in  this  country.  They  should  be  seen  to  be 
appreciated.  Understand  clearly — and  this  letter  is  written 
after  a  thousand  miles  of  experiences — that  money  will  not 
buy  you  service  in  the  West.  When  the  hotel  clerk — the 
man  who  awards  your  room  to  you  and  who  is  supposed  to 
give  you  information — when  that  resplendent  individual 
stoops  to  attend  to  your  wants  he  does  so  whistling  or  hum- 
ming or  picking  his  teeth,  or  pauses  to  converse  with  some 
one  he  knows.  These  performances,  I  gather,  are  to  impress 
upon  you  that  he  is  a  free  man  and  your  equal.  From  his 
general  appearance  and  the  size  of  his  diamonds  he  ought  to 
be  your  superior.  There  is  no  necessity  for  this  swaggering 
self-consciousness  of  freedom.  Business  is  business,  and  the 
man  who  is  paid  to  attend  to  a  man  might  reasonably  devote 
his  whole  attention  to  the  job.  Out  of  office  hours  he  can 
take  his  coach  and  four  and  pervade  society  if  he  pleases. 

In  a  vast  marble-paved  hall,  under  the  glare  of  an  electric 
light,  sat  forty  or  fifty  men,  and  for  their  use  and  amusement 
were  provided  spittoons  of  infinite  capacity  and  generous 
gape.  Most  of  the  men  wore  frock-coats  and  top-hats-— the 
things  that  we  in  India  put  on  at  a  wedding-breakfast,  if  we 
possess  them — but  they  all  spat.  They  spat  on  principle. 
The  spittoons  were  on  the  staircases,  in  each  bedroom — ^yea, 
and  in  chambers  even  more  sacred  than  these.  They  chased 
one  into  retirement,  but  they  blossomed  in  chiefest  splendor 
roimd  the  bar,  and  they  were  aU  used,  every  reeking  one  of 
them. 

ANSWERS   MENDACIOUS  AND   EVASIVE 

Just  before  I  began  to  feel  deathly  sick  another  reporter 
grappled  me.  What  he  wanted  to  know  was  the  precise  area 
of  India  in  square  miles.  I  referred  him  to  Whittaker.  He 
had  never  heard  of  Whittaker.  He  wanted  it  from  my  own 
mouth,  and  I  would  not  tell  him.  Then  he  swerved  off  just 
like  the  other  man  to  details  of  journalism  in  our  own  country. 
I  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  interior  economy  of  a  paper 
most  concerned  the  people  who  worked  it. 


230  U/or^s  of  P^adyard  \{ipViT)^ 

* '  That's  the  very  thing  that  interests  us, ' '  he  said.  "  Have 
you  got  reporters  anything  hke  our  reporters  on  Indian  news- 
papers?" 

"We  have  not,"  I  said,  and  suppressed  the  "thank  God" 
rising  to  my  Hps. 

"Why  haven't  you?"  said  he. 

"Because  they  would  die,"  I  said. 

It  was  exactly  like  talking  to  a  child — a  very  rude  little 
child.  He  would  begin  almost  every  sentence  with,  "N"ow 
tell  me  something  about  India,"  and  would  turn  aimlessly 
from  one  question  to  the  other  without  the  least  continuity. 
I  was  not  angry,  but  keenly  interested.  The  man  was  a 
revelation  to  me.  To  his  questions  I  returned  answers  men- 
dacious and  evasive.  After  all  it  really  did  not  matter  what 
I  said.  He  could  not  understand.  I  can  only  hope  and  pray 
that  none  of  the  readers  of  the  "Pioneer"  will  ever  see  that 
portentous  interview.  The  man  made  me  out  to  be  an  idiot 
several  sizes  more  driveling  than  my  destiny  intended,  and 
the  rankness  of  his  ignorance  managed  to  distort  the  few 
poor  facts  with  which  I  supplied  him  into  large  and  elaborate 
lies.  Then,  thought  I,  "the  matter  of  American  journalism 
shall  be  looked  into  later  on.    At  present  I  will  enjoy  myself. ' ' 

ABOUT   THE    CITY 

No  man  rose  to  tell  me  what  were  the  lions  of  the  place. 
No  one  volunteered  any  sort  of  conveyance.  I  was  abso- 
lutely alone  in  this  big  city  of  white  folk.  By  instinct  I 
sought  refreshment  and  came  upon  a  bar-room  full  of  bad 
Salon  pictures  in  which  men  with  hats  on  the  backs  of  their 
heads  were  wolfing  food  from  a  counter.  It  was  the  institu- 
tion of  the  "free  lunch"  I  had  struck.  You  paid  for  a  drink 
and  got  as  much  as  you  wanted  to  eat.  For  something  less 
than  a  rupee  a  day  a  man  can  feed  himself  smnptuously  in 
San  Francisco,  even  though  he  be  a  bankrupt.  Remember 
this  if  ever  you  are  stranded  in  these  parts. 

Later  I  began  a  vast  but  unsystematic  exploration  of  the 
streets.     I   asked  for  no   names.     It  was  enough  that  the 


/Imerieap  jvfotes  231 

pavements  were  full  of  white  men  and  women,  the  streets 
clanging  with  traffic,  and  that  the  restful  roar  of  a  great  city 
rang  in  my  ears.  The  cable  cars  glided  to  all  points  of  the 
compass  at  once.  I  took  them  one  by  one  till  I  could  go 
no  further.  San  Francisco  has  been  pitched  down  on  the 
sand  bunkers  of  the  Bikaneer  desert.  About  one-fourth 
of  it  is  ground  reclaimed  from  the  sea— any  old-timers  will 
tell  you  all  about  that.  The  remainder  is  just  ragged,  un- 
thrifty sand  hills,  to-day  pegged  down  by  houses. 

UP    AND    DOWN    THE    SAND    HILLS 

From  an  English  point  of  view  there  has  not  been  the 
least  attempt  at  grading  those  hills,  and  indeed  you  might  as 
well  try  to  grade  the  hillocks  of  Sind.  The  cable  cars  have 
for  all  practical  purposes  made  San  Francisco  a  dead  level. 
They  take  no  count  of  rise  or  fall,  but  slide  equably  on  their 
appointed  courses  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  a  six-mile 
street.  They  turn  corners  almost  at  right  angles,  cross  other 
lines,  and  for  aught  I  know  may  run  up  the  sides  of  houses. 
There  is  no  visible  agency  of  their  flight,  but  once  in  a  while 
you  shall  pass  a  five-storied  building  humming  with  machinery 
that  winds  up  an  everlasting  wire  cable,  and  the  initiated 
will  tell  you  that  here  is  the  mechanism.  I  gave  up  asking 
questions.  If  it  pleases  Providence  to  make  a  car  run  up  and 
down  a  slit  in  the  ground  for  many  miles,  and  if  for  two- 
pence half -penny  I  can  ride  in  that  car,  why  shall  I  seek  the 
reasons  of  the  miracle?  Rather  let  me  look  out  of  the  win- 
dows till  the  shops  give  place  to  thousands  and  thousands  of 
little  houses  made  of  wood  (to  imitate  stone),  each  house  just 
big  enough  for  a  man  and  his  family.  Let  me  watch  the 
people  in  the  cars  and  try  to  find  out  in  what  manner  they 
differ  from  us,  their  ancestors. 

It  grieves  me  now  that  I  cursed  them  (in  the  matter  of 
book  piracy),  because  I  perceived  that  my  curse  is  working 
and  that  their  speech  is  becoming  a  horror  already.  They 
delude  themselves  into  the  belief  that  they  talk  English — the 
English — and  I  have  already  been  pitied  for  speaking  with 


232  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  K^plip<$ 

"an  English  accent."  The  man  who  pitied  me  spoke,  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned,  the  language  of  thieves.  And  they  all 
do.  "Where  we  put  the  accent  forward  they  throw  it  back, 
SiTid  vice  versa;  where  we  give  the  long  "a"  they  use  the 
short,  and  words  so  simple  as  to  be  past  mistaking  they  pro- 
nounce somewhere  up  in  the  dome  of  their  heads.  How  do 
these  things  happen? 

NO    AMERICAN    LANGUAGE 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says  that  the  Yankee  schoolmarm, 
the  cider  and  the  salt  codfish  of  the  Eastern  States,  are  re- 
sponsible for  what  he  calls  a  nasal  accent.  I  know  better. 
They  stole  books  from  across  the  water  without  paying  for 
'em,  and  the  snort  of  delight  was  fixed  in  their  nostrils  for- 
ever by  a  just  Providence.  That  is  why  they  talk  a  foreign 
tongue  to-day. 

"Cats  is  dogs,  and  rabbits  is  dogs,  and  so's  parrots.  But 
this  'ere  tortoise  is  an  insect,  so  there  ain't  no  charge,*'  as 
the  old  porter  said. 

A  Hindu  is  a  Hindu  and  a  brother  to  the  man  who  knows 
his  vernacular.  And  a  Frenchman  is  French  because  he 
speaks  his  own  language.  But  the  American  has  no  lan- 
guage. He  is  dialect,  slang,  provincialism,  accent,  and  so 
forth.  Now  that  I  have  heard  their  voices  all  the  beauty  of 
Bret  Harte  is  being  ruined  for  me,  because  I  find  myself 
catching  through  the  roll  of  his  rhythmical  prose  the  cadence 
of  his  peculiar  fatherland.  Get  an  American  lady  to  read  to 
you  *'How  Santa  Claus  Came  to  Simpson's  Bar"  and  see  how 
much  is,  under  her  tongue,  left  of  the  beauty  of  the  original. 

But  I  am  sorry  for  Bret  Harte.  It  happened  this  way. 
A  reporter  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  the  city,  and  I  mguie 
answer  suavely  that  it  was  hallowed  ground  to  me,  because 
of  Bret  Harte.     That  was  true. 

"Well,"  said  the  reporter,  "Bret  Harte  claims  California, 
but  California  don't  claim  Bret  Harte.  He's  been  so  long  in 
England  that  he's  quite  English.  Have  you  seen  our  cracker 
factories  or  the  new  offices  of  the  'Examiner'?" 


fimeriean)  fiotes  233 

He  could  not  understand  that  to  the  outside  world  the 
sity  was  worth  a  great  deal  less  than  the  man.  I  never 
intended  to  curse  the  people  with  a  provincialism  so  vast  as 
this. 

THE    CLIFF    HOUSE 

But  let  us  return  to  our  sheep — which  means  the  sea-Uons 
of  the  Cliff  House.  They  are  the  great  show  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. You  take  a  train  which  pulls  up  the  middle  of  the 
street  (it  killed  two  people  the  day  before  yesterday,  being 
unbraked  and  driven  absolutely  regardless  of  consequenoes}-j 
and  you  pull  up  somewhere  at  the  back  of  the  city  on  the 
Pacific  beach.  Originally  the  chffs  and  their  approaches 
must  have  been  pretty,  but  they  have  been  bo  carefully  de- 
filed with  advertisements  that  they  are  now  one  big  bhstered 
abomination.  A  hundred  yards  from  the  shore  stood  a  big 
rock  covered  with  the  carcasses  of  the  sleek  sea-beasts  who 
roared  and  rolled  and  walloped  in  the  spouting  surges.  No 
bold  man  had  painted  the  creatures  sky-blue  or  advertised 
newspapers  on  their  backs,  wherefore  they  did  not  match  the 
landscape,  which  was  chiefly  hoarding.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
whatever  sort  of  government  may  obtain  in  this  country  will 
make  a  restoration  of  the  place  and  keep  it  clean  and  neat. 
At  present  the  sovereign  people,  of  whom  I  have  heard  so 
much  already,  are  vending  cherries  and  painting  the  virtues 
of  "Little  Bile  Beans"  all  over  it. 

ON    KEARNEY    STREET 

Night  fell  over  the  Pacific  and  the  white  sea-fog  whipped 
through  the  streets,  dimming  the  splendors  of  the  electric 
lights.  It  is  the  use  of  this  city,  her  men  and  women  folk 
to  parade  between  the  hours  of  eight  and  ten  a  certain  street 
called  Kearney  Street,  where  the  finest  shops  are  situated. 
Here  the  click  of  light  heels  on  the  pavement  is  loudest,  here 
the  lights  are  brightest,  and  here  the  thunder  of  the  traffic  is 
most  overwhelming.  I  watched  Young  California  and  saw 
that  it  was,  at  least,  expensively  dressed,  cheerful  in  manner, 
and  self-asserting  in  conversation.     Also  the  women  were 


234  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplii>($ 

very  fair.  Perhaps  eighteen  days  aboard  ship  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  my  unreserved  admiration.  The  maidens 
were  of  generous  build,  large,  well  groomed,  and  attired  in 
raiment  that  even  to  my  inexperienced  eyes  must  have  cost 
much.  Kearney  Street  at  nine  o'clock  levels  all  distinctions 
of  rank  as  impartially  as  the  grave.  Again  and  again  I 
loitered  at  the  heels  of  a  couple  of  resplendent  beings,  only 
to  overhear,  when  I  expected  the  level  voice  of  culture,  the 
staccato  "Sez  he,"  *'Sez  I"  that  is  the  mark  of  the  white 
servant-girl  all  the  world  over. 

THE    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE 

This  was  depressing  because,  in  spite  of  all  that  goes  to 
the  contrary,  fine  feathers  ought  to  make  fine  birds.  There 
was  wealth— unlimited  wealth — in  the  streets,  but  not  an 
accent  that  would  not  have  been  dear  at  fifty  cents.  Where- 
fore, revolving  in  my  mind  that  these  folk  were  barbarians, 
I  was  presently  enlightened  and  made  aware  that  they  also 
were  the  heirs  of  all  the  ages  and  civilized  after  all.  There 
appeared  before  me  an  affable  stranger  of  prepossessing  ap- 
pearance, with  a  blue  and  an  innocent  eye.  Addressing  me 
by  name,  he  claimed  to  have  met  me  in  New  York,  at  the 
Windsor,  and  to  this  claim  I  gave  a  qualified  assent.  I  did 
not  remember  the  fact,  but  since  he  was  so  certain  of  it, 
why,  then — I  waited  developments. 

*'And  what  did  you  think  of  Indiana  when  you  came 
through?"  was  the  next  question. 

It  revealed  the  mystery  of  previous  acquaintance  and  one 
or  two  other  things.  With  reprehensible  carelessness  my 
friend  of  the  light-blue  eye  had  looked  up  the  name  of  his 
victim  in  the  hotel  register  and  read  "India"  for  Indiana. 

The  provincialism  with  which  I  had  cursed  his  people  ex- 
tended to  himself.  He  could  not  imagine  an  Englishman 
coming  through  the  States  from  west  to  east  instead  of  by 
the  regularly  ordained  route.  My  fear  was  that  in  his  de- 
light in  finding  me  so  responsive  he  would  make  remarks 
about  'N^'W  York  and  the  Windsor  which  I  could  not  under- 


stand.  And,  indeed,  he  adventured  in  this  direction  once  or 
twice,  asking  me  what  I  thought  of  such  and  such  streets, 
which  from  his  tone  I  gathered  to  be  anything  but  respect- 
able. It  is  trying  to  talk  unknown  New  York  in  almost  un- 
known San  Francisco.  But  my  friend  was  merciful.  He 
protested  that  I  was  one  after  his  own  heart,  and  pressed 
upon  me  rare  and  curious  drinks  at  more  than  one  bar. 
These  drinks  I  accepted  with  gratitude,  as  also  the  cigars 
with  which  his  pockets  were  stored.  He  would  show  me  the 
life  of  the  city.  Having  no  desire  to  watch  a  weary  old  play 
again,  I  evaded  the  offer  and  received  in  heu  of  the  devil's 
instruction  much  coarse  flattery.  Curiously  constituted  is 
the  soul  of  man.  Knowing  how  and  where  this  man  lied, 
waiting  idly  for  the  finale,  I  was  distinctly  conscious,  as  he 
bubbled  compliments  in  my  ear,  of  soft  thrills  of  gratified 
pride  stealing  from  hat-rim  to  boot-heels.  I  was  wise,  quoth 
he — anybody  could  see  that  with  half  an  eye;  sagacious, 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  an  acquaintance  to  be  de- 
sired ;   one  who  had  tasted  the  cup  of  life  with  discretion. 

THE    BUNCO    STEERER 

All  this  pleased  me,  and  in  a  measure  numbed  the  sus- 
picion that  was  thoroughly  aroused.  Eventually  the  blue- 
eyed  one  discovered,  nay,  insisted,  that  I  had  a  taste  for 
cards  (this  was  clumsily  worked  in,  but  it  was  my  fault,  for 
jn  that  I  met  him  half-way  and  allowed  him  no  chance  of 
good  acting).  Hereupon  I  laid  my  head  upon  one  side  and 
simulated  unholy  wisdom,  quoting  odds  and  ends  of  poker 
talk,  all  ludicrously  misappHed.  My  friend  kept  his  counte- 
nance admirably,  and  well  he  might,  for  five  minutes  later 
we  arrived,  always  by  the  purest  of  chances,  at  a  place  where 
we  could  play  cards  and  also  frivol  with  Louisiana  State 
Lottery  tickets.     Would  I  play? 

*'Nay,"  said  I,  *'for  to  me  cards  have  neither  meaning 
nor  continuity;  but  let  us  assume  that  I  am  going  to  play. 
How  would  you  and  your  friends  get  to  work?  Would  you 
play  a  straight  game,  or  make  me  drunk,  or — well,  the  fact 


236  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  t^iplii?^ 

is,  I'm  a  newspaper  man,  and  I'd  be  mucli  obliged  if  you'd 
let  me  know  something  about  bunco  steering." 

My  blue-eyed  friend  erected  himself  into  an  obelisk  of 
profanity.  He  cursed  me  by  his  gods — the  right  and  left 
bower  ^  he  even  cursed  the  very  good  cigars  he  had  given  me. 
But,  the  storm  over,  he  quieted  down  and  explained.  I 
apologized  for  causing  him  to  waste  an  evening,  and  we 
spent  a  very  pleasant  time  together. 

Inaccuracy,  provincialism  and  a  too  hasty  rushing  to  con- 
clusions were  the  rocks  that  he  had  split  on,  but  he  got  his 
revenge  when  he  said  i 

**How  would  I  play  with  you?  From  all  the  poppycock 
(Anglice  bosh)  you  talked  about  poker  I'd  ha'  played  a 
straight  game  and  skinned  you.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  make  you  drunk.  You  never  knew  anything  of 
the  game,  but  how  I  was  mistaken  in  going  to  work  on  you 
makes  me  sick." 

He  glared  at  me  as  though  I  had  done  him  an  injury. 
To-day  I  know  how  it  is  that  year  after  year,  week  after 
week,  the  bimco  steerer,  who  is  the  confidence  trick  and  the 
card-sharper  man  of  other  climes,  secures  his  prey.  He 
clavers  them  over  with  flattery  as  the  snake  slavers  the 
rabbit.  The  incident  depressed  me  because  it  showed  I  had 
left  the  innocent  East  far  behind  and  was  come  to  a  country 
where  a  man  must  look  out  for  himself.  The  very  hotel 
bristled  with  notices  about  keeping  my  door  locked  and  de- 
positing my  valuables  in  a  safe.  The  white  man  in  a  lump 
is  bad.  Weeping  softly  for  0-Toyo  (little  I  knew  then  that 
my  heart  was  to  be  torn  afresh  from  my  bosom)  I  fell  asleep 
in  the  clanging  hotel.  || 

Next  morning  I  had  entered  upon  the  deferred  inherit- 
ance. There  are  no  princes  in  America— at  least  with  crowns 
on  their  heads — ^but  a  generous-minded  member  of  some  royal  j 
family  received  my  letter  of  introduction.  Ere  the  day  * 
closed  I  was  a  member  of  the  two  clubs  and  looked  for 
many  engagements  to  dinner  and  party.  Now,  this  prince, 
upon  whose  financial  operations  be  continual  increase,  had 


no  reason,  nop  had  the  others,  his  friends,  to  put  himself  out 
ll  for  the  sake  of  one  Briton  more  or  less,  but  he  rested  not  till 

he  had  accomplished  all  in  my  behalf  that  a  mother  could 
I  think  of  for  her  debutante  daughter. 

i' 

l! 

THE    BOHEMIAN    CLUB 

Do  you  know  the  Bohemian  Club  of  San  Francisco?     They 

1  say  its  fame  extends  over  the  world.     It  was  created  some- 

i  what  on  the  lines  of  the  Savage  by  men  who  wrote  or  drew 

things,  and  has  blossomed  into  most  unrepublican  luxury. 

The  ruler  of  the  place  is  an  owl — an  owl  standing  upon  a 

skull  and  cross-bones,  showing  forth  grimly  the  wisdom  of 

the  man  of  letters  and  the  end  of  his  hopes  for  immortality. 

The  owl  stands  on  the  staircase,  a  statue  four  feet  high;   is 

carved  in  the  woodwork,  flutters  on  the  frescoed  ceiling,  is 

!i  stamped  on  the  note-paper,  and  hangs  on  the  walls.     He 

is  an  ancient  and  honorable  bird.     Under  his  wing  'twas 

my  privilege  to  meet  with  white  men  whose  lives  were  not 

chained  down  to  routine  of  toil,  who  wrote  magazine  articles 

;!  instead  of  reading  them  hurriedly  in  the  pauses  of  office- 

i|  work,  who  painted  pictures  instead  of  contenting  themselves 

with  cheap  etchings  picked  up  at  another  man's  sale  of  effects. 

,  Mine  were  all  the  rights  of  social  intercourse,  craft  by  craft, 

j':  that  India,  stony-hearted  stepmother  of  collectors,  has  swin- 

l  died  us  out  of. 

Treading  soft  carpets  and  breathing  the  incense  of  supe- 

1  rior  cigars,   I  wandered  from  room   to   room   studying   the 

I'  .paintings   in  which  the   members  of  the   club  had  carica- 

I  tured  themselves,   their  associates,  and  their  aims.     There 

j  was  a  slick  French  audacity  about  the  workmanship  of  these 

||  men  of  toil  unbending  that  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the 

I  beholder.     And  yet  it  was  not  altogether  French.     A  dry 

'•  grimness  of  treatment,  almost  Dutch,  marked  the  difference. 

The  men  painted  as  they  spoke— with  certainty.     The  club 

indulges  in  revelries  which  it  calls  "jinks" — high  and  low— 

at  intervals — and  each  of  these  gatherings  is  faithfully  por- 

trayed  in  oils  by  hands  that  know  their  businesSe     In  this 


238  U/orHs  of  F^udyard  K*plii?<$ 

club  were  no  amateurs  spoiling  canvas,  because  they  fancied  I 
they  could  handle   oils   without  knowledge  of   shadows   orr 
anatomy — no   gentleman   of  leisure  ruining   the  temper    off 
publishers  and  an  already  ruined  market  with  attempts  to 
write  ''because  everybody  writes  something  these  days." 

PLEASANT    HOURS  j 

i 

My  hosts  were  working  or  had  worked  for  their  daily ' 
bread  with  pen  or  paint,  and  their  talk  for  the  most  part  was 
of  the  shop — shoppy — that  is  to  say,  delightful.  They  ex- 
tended a  large  hand  of  welcome  and  were  as  brethren,  and  I 
did  homage  to  the  owl  and  listened  to  their  talk.  An  Indian 
club  about  Christmas-time  will  yield,  if  properly  worked,  an 
abundant  harvest  of  queer  tales ;  but  at  a  gathering  of  Ameri- 
cans from  the  uttermost  ends  of  their  own  continent  the  tales 
are  larger,  thicker,  more  spinous,  and  even  more  azure  than 
any  Indian  variety.  Tales  of  the  war  I  heard  told  by  an  ex- 
officer  of  the  South  over  his  evening  drink  to  a  colonel  of  the 
Northern  army,  my  introducer,  who  had  served  as  a  trooper 
in  the  Northern  Horse,  throwing  in  emendations  from  time 
to  time.  "Tales  of  the  Law,*' which  in  this  country  is  an 
amazingly  elastic  affair,  followed  from  the  lips  of  a  judge. 
Forgive  me  for  recording  one  tale  that  struck  me  as  new.  It 
may  interest  the  up-country  Bar  in  India. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  Samuelson,  a  young  lawyer, 
who  feared  not  God,  neither  regarded  the  Bench.  (Name, 
age,  and  town  of  the  man  were  given  at  great  length.)  To 
him  no  case  had  ever  come  as  a  client,  partly  because  he 
lived  in  a  district  where  lynch  law  prevailed,  and  partly  be- 
cause the  most  desperate  prisoner  shrunk  from  intrusting 
himself  to  the  mercies  of  a  phenomenal  stammerer.  But  in 
time  there  happened  an  aggravated  murder — so  bad,  indeed, 
that  by  common  consent  the  citizens  decided,  as  a  prelude  to  ' 
lynching,  to  give  the  real  law  a  chance.  They  could,  in  fact, 
gambol  round  that  murder.  They  met — the  court  in  its  shirt- 
sleeves— and  against  the  raw  square  of  the  Court  House  win- 
dow a  temptingly  suggestive  branch  of  a  tree  fretted  the  sky« 


/Imerieai)  f/otes  239 

No  one  appeared  for  the  prisoner,  and,  partly  in  jest,  the 

court  advised  young  Samuelson  to  take  up  the  case. 

* '  The  prisoner  is  undefended,  Sam, ' '  said  the  court.     ' '  The 
!i  square  thing  to  do  would  be  for  you  to  take  him  aside  and  do 

the  best  you  can  for  him." 

Court,  jury,  and  witness  then  adjourned  to  the  veranda, 

while  Samuelson  led  his  client  aside  to  the  Court  House  cells. 

An  hour  passed  ere  the  lawyer  returned  alone.     Mutely  the 

audience  questioned. 

"May  it  p-p-please  the  c-court,"  said  Samuelson,  "my 

client's  case  is  a  b-b-b-bad  one — a  d-d-damn  bad  one.     You 

told  me  to  do  the  b-b-best  I  c-could  for  him,  judge,  so  I've 
i  jest  given  him  y-your  b-b-bay  gelding  an'  told  him  to  light 
I  out  for  healthier  c-c-climes,  my  p-p-professional  opinion  be- 
[  ing  he'd  be  hanged  quicker'n  h-h-hades  if  he  dallied  here, 
i  B-by  this  time  my  client's  'bout  fifteen  mile  out  yonder  some- 
i  whares.  That  was  the  b-b-best  I  could  do  for  him,  may  it 
!  p-p-please  the  court." 

The  young  man,    escaping  punishment  in  lieu  of  the 
I  prisoner,  made  his  fortune  ere  five  years. 

TALES    OF    OLD    DAYS 

Other  voices  followed,   with  equally  wondrous  tales  of 

I  lariat  throwing  in  Mexico  and  Arizona,  of  gambling  at  army 

I  posts  in  Texas,  of  newspaper  wars  waged  in  godless  Chicago 

I  il  could  not  help  being  interested,  but  they  were  not  pretty 

tricks),  of  deaths  sudden  and  violent  in  Montana  and  Dakota, 

of  the  loves  of  half-breed  maidens  in  the  South,  and  fantastic 

huntings  for  gold  in  mysterious  Alaska.     Above  all,  they 

told  the  story  of  the  building  of  old  San  Francisco,  when  the 

"finest  collection  of  humanity  on  God's  earth,  sir,  started  this 

town,  and  the  water  came  up  to  the  foot  of  Market  Street. '.' 

Very  terrible  were  some  of  the  tales,  grimly  humorous  the 

others,  and  the  men  in  broadcloth  and  fine  Hnen  who  told 

them  had  played  their  parts  in  them. 

' '  And  now  and  again  when  things  got  too  bad  they  would 
toll  the  city  bell  and  the  Vigilance  Committee  turned  out 


240  U/orl^s  of  f^udyard  l^iplip^ 

and  hanged  the  suspicious  characters.  A  man  didn't  begin 
to  be  suspected  in  those  days  till  he  had  committed  at  least 
one  unprovoked  murder,"  said  a  calm-eyed,  portly  old  gen- 
tleman. 

I  looked  at  the  pictures  around  me,  the  noiseless,  neat- 
uniformed  waiter  behind  me,  the  oak-ribbed  ceiling  above, 
the  velvety  carpet  beneath.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  even 
twenty  years  ago  you  could  see  a  man  hanged  with  great 
pomp.  Later  on  I  found  reason  to  change  my  opinion.  The 
tales  gave  me  a  headache  and  set  me  thinking.  How  in  the 
world  Y/as  it  possible  to  take  in  even  one  thousandth  of  this 
huge,  roaring,  many-sided  continent?  In  the  tobacco-scented 
silence  of  the  sumptuous  library  lay  Professor  Bryce's  book 
on  the  American  Republic. 

**It  is  an  omen,"  said  I.  "He  has  done  all  things  in  all 
seriousness,  and  he  may  be  purchased  for  half  a  guinea. 
Those  who  desire  information  of  the  most  undoubted  must 
refer  to  his  pages.  For  me  is  the  daily  round  of  vagabond- 
age, the  recording  of  the  incidents  of  the  hour  and  intercourse 
with  the  traveling-companion  of  the  day.  I  will  not  *do'  this 
country  at  all." 

INDIA    FORGOTTEN 

And  I  forgot  all  about  India  for  ten  days  while  I  went 
out  to  dinners  and  watched  the  social  customs  of  the  people, 
which  are  entirely  different  from  our  customs,  and  was  in- 
troduced to  men  of  many  millions.  These  persons  are  harm- 
less in  their  earHer  stages — ^that  is  to  say,  a  man  worth  three 
or  four  million  dollars  may  be  a  good  talker,  clever,  amus- 
ing, and  of  the  world ;  a  man  with  twice  that  amount  is  to 
be  avoided,  and  a  twenty  million  man  is — ^just  twenty  mil- 
lions. Take  an  instance.  I  was  speaking  to  a  newspaper 
man  about  seeing  the  proprietor  of  his  journal,  as  in  my 
innocence  I  supposed  newspaper  men  occasionally  did.  My 
friend  snorted  indignantly : 

*' See  him!  Great  Scott  1  "No.  If  he  happens  to  appear 
in  the  oflSce,  I  have  to  associate  with  him ;  but,  thank  Heaven! 
outside  of  that  I  move  in  circles  where  he  cannot  come." 


/imerieai)  flotes  241 

And  yet  the  first  thing  I  have  been  taught  to  believe  is 
that  money  was  everything  in  America ! 


AMERICAN    POLITICS   TURNED   INSIDE 

OUT 


SEAMY  SIDES  SEEN  BY  RUDYARD  KIPLING  IN  THE  CLEAR 
LIGHT  OP  CALIFORNIA — AMERICAN  MAIDENS  ANALYZED 
—ETHNOLOGICAL  AND  OTHER  PROBLEMS  TO  BE  WORKED 
OUT  WITH  AMERICA'S  DESTINY 

I  HAVE  been  watching  machinery  in  repose  after  reading 
about  machinery  in  action. 

An  excellent  gentleman,  who  bears  a  name  honored  in 
the  magazine,  writes,  much  as  Disraeli  orated,  of  *'the  sub- 
lime instincts  of  an  ancient  people,"  the  certainty  with  which 
they  can  be  trusted  to  manage  their  own  affairs  in  their  own 
way,  and  the  speed  with  which  they  are  making  for  all  sorts 
of  desirable  goals.  This  he  called  a  statement  or  purview  of 
American  politics. 

I  went  almost  directly  afterward  to  a  saloon  where  gentle 
men  interested  in  ward  politics  nightly  congregate.  They 
were  not  pretty  persons.  Some  of  them  were  bloated^  and 
*  they  all  swore  cheerfully  till  the  heavy  gold  watchchains  on 
their  fat  stomachs  rose  and  fell  again;  but  they  talked,  over 
their  hquor  as  men  who  had  power  and  unquestioned  access 
to  places  of  trust  and  profit. 

The  magazine  writer  discussed  theories  of  government; 
these  men  the  practice.  They  had  been  there.  They  knew 
all  about  it.  They  banged  their  fists  on  the  table  and  spoke 
of  political  'Epulis,"  the  vending  of  votes,  and  so  forth. 
Theirs  was  not  the  talk  of  village  babblers  reconstructing  the 
affairs  of  the  nation,  but  of  strong,  coarse,  lustful  men  fight- 
ing for  spoil  and  thoroughly  understanding  the  best  methods 
of  reaching  it. 
Vol.  3.  U 


242  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplii)^ 

I  listened  long  and  intently  to  speech  I  could  not  under* 
stand — or  but  in  spots. 

It  was  the  speech  of  business,  however.  I  had  sense 
enough  to  know  that,  and  to  do  my  laughing  outside  the  door. 

Then  I  began  to  understand  why  my  pleasant  and  well- 
educated  hosts  in  San  Francisco  spoke  with  a  bitter  scorn  of 
such  duties  of  citizenship  as  voting  and  taking  an  interest  in 
the  distribution  of  offices.  Scores  of  men  have  told  me, 
without  false  pride,  that  they  would  as  soon  concern  them- 
selves with  the  public  affairs  of  the  city  or  state  as  rake  muck 
with  a  steam-shovel.  It  may  be  that  their  lofty  disdain 
covers  selfishness,  but  I  should  be  very  sorry  habitually  to 
meet  the  fat  gentlemen  with  shiny  top-hats  and  plump  cigars 
in  whose  society  I  have  been  spending  the  evening. 

Read  about  poHtics  as  the  cultured  writer  of  the  magazines 
regards  'em,  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  pay  your  respects  to 
the  gentlemen  who  run  the  grimy  reality. 

I'm  sick  of  interviewing  night  editors  who  lean  their  chair 
against  the  wall  and,  in  response  to  my  demand  for  the  record 
of  a  prominent  citizen,  answer:  ''Well,  you  see,  he  began  by 
keeping  a  saloon,"  etc.  I  prefer  to  believe  that  my  inform- 
ants are  treating  me  as  in  the  old  sinful  days  in  India  I  was 
used  to  treat  the  wandering  globe-trotter.  They  declare  that 
they  speak  the  truth,  and  the  news  of  dog  politics  lately 
vouchsafed  to  me  in  groggeries  inclines  me  to  believe,  but  I 
won't.  The  people  are  much  too  nice  to  slangander  as  reck- 
lessly as  I  have  been  doing. 

OH,  fie!  rudyard 

Besides,  I  am  hopelessly  in  love  with  about  eight  Ameri- 
can maidens — all  perfectly  delightful  till  the  next  one  comes 
into  the  room. 

0-Toyo  was  a  darling,  but  she  lacked  several  things — 
conversation  for  one.  You  cannot  live  on  giggles.  She  shall 
remain  unmarried  at  Nagasaki,  while  I  roast  a  battered 
heart  before  the  shrine  of  a  big  Kentucky  blonde,  who  had 
for  a  nurse  when  she  was  little  a  negro  "mammy. 


)> 


/imerieai)  f/ofces  M3 

By  consequence  she  has  welded  on  Calif omian  beauty, 
Paris  dresses,  Eastern  culture,  Europe  trips  and  wild  "Western 
originality,  the  queer,  dreamy  superstitions  of  the  quarters, 
and  the  result  is  soul-shattering.  And  she  is  but  one  of 
many  stars. 

Item,  a  maiden  who  behoves  in  education  and  possesses 
it,  with  a  few  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  boot  and  a  taste 
for  slumming. 

Item,  the  leader  of  a  sort  of  informal  salon  where  girls 
congregate,  read  papers,  and  daringly  discuss  metaphysical 
problems  and  candy — a  sloe-eyed,  black-browed,  imperious 
maiden  she. 

Item,  a  very  small  maiden,  absolutely  without  reverence, 
who  can  in  one  swift  sentence  trample  upon  and  leave  gasping 
half  a  dozen  young  men. 

Item,  a  millionairess,  burdened  with  her  money,  lonely, 
caustic,  with  a  tongue  keen  as  a  sword,  yearning  for  a 
sphere,  but  chained  up  to  the  rock  of  her  vast  possessions. 

Item,  a  typewriter  maiden  earning  her  own  bread  in  thi* 
big  city,  because  she  doesn't  think  a  girl  ought  to  be  a  burden 
on  her  parents,  who  quotes  Theophile  Gautier  and  moves 
through  the  world  manfully,  much  respected  for  all  her 
twenty  inexperienced  summers. 

Item,  a  woman  from  cloud-land  who  has  no  history  ia 
the  past  or  future,  but  is  discreetly  of  the  present  and  strives 
for  the  confidences  of  male  himaanity  on  the  grounds  of 
"sympathy"  (methinks  this  is  not  altogether  a  new  type). 

Item,  a  girl  in  a  "dive,"  blessed  with  a  Greek  head  and 
eyes  that  seem  to  speak  aU  that  is  best  and  sweetest  in  th« 
world.  But  woe  is  me!  She  has  no  ideas  in  this  world  or 
the  next  beyond  the  consimiption  of  beer  (a  commission  on 
each  bottle),  and  protests  that  she  sings  the  songs  allotted  to 
her  nightly  without  more  than  the  vaguest  notion  of  their 
meaning. 

AMERICAN    GIRLS    SUPREME 

Sweet  and  comely  are  the  maidens  of  Devonshire ;  delicate 
and  of  gracious  seeming  those  who  Hve  in  the  pleasant  places 


244  U/orl^s  of  f^udyard  \{lplli)(^ 

of  London ;  fascinating  for  all  their  demureness  the  damsels 
of  France,  clinging  closely  to  their  mothers  and  with  large 
eyes  wondering  at  the  wicked  world;  excellent  in  her  own 
place  and  to  those  who  understand  her  is  the  Anglo-Indian 
''spin"  in  her  second  season;  but  the  girls  of  America  are 
above  and  beyond  them  all.  They  are  clever,  they  can  talk 
— yea,  it  is  said  that  they  think.  Certainly  they  have  an 
appearance  of  so  doing  which  is  delightfully  deceptive. 

They  are  original,  and  regard  you  between  the  brows  with 
unabashed  eyes  as  a  sister  might  look  at  her  brother.  They 
are  instructed,  too,  in  the  folly  and  vanity  of  the  male  mind, 
for  they  have  associated  with  'Hhe  boys"  from  babyhood 
and  can  discerningly  minister  to  both  vices  or  pleasantly  snub 
the  possessor.  They  possess,  moreover,  a  life  among  them- 
selves, independent  of  any  masculine  associations.  They 
have  societies  and  clubs  and  unlimited  tea-fights  where  all 
the  guests  are  girls.  They  are  self-possessed,  without  parting 
with  any  tenderness  that  is  their  sex-right ;  they  understand ; 
they  can  take  care  of  themselves;  they  are  superbly  inde- 
pendent. When  you  ask  them  what  makes  them  so  charm- 
ing, they  say : 

*'It  is  because  we  are  better  educated  than  your  girls,  and 
— and  we  are  more  sensible  in  regard  to  men.  We  have  good 
times  all  round,  but  we  aren't  taught  to  regard  every  man 
as  a  possible  husband.  Nor  is  he  expected  to  marry  the  first 
girl  he  calls  on  regularly, ' ' 

Yes,  they  have  good  times,  their  freedom  is  large,  and 
they  do  not  abuse  it.  They  can  go  driving  with  young  men 
and  receive  visits  from  young  men  to  an  extent  that  would 
make  an  English  mother  wink  with  horror,  and  neither  driver 
nor  drivee  has  a  thought  beyond  the  enjoyment  of  a  good 
time.     As  certain,  also,  as  their  own  poets  have  said :    " 

"Man  is  fire  and  woman  is  tow, 
And  the  devil  he  comes  and  begins  to  blow." 

In  America  the  tow  is  soaked  in  a  solution  that  makes  it 
fire-proof,  in  absolute  liberty  and  large  knowledge;    conse- 


/Imerieai?  Jvfotes  245 

quently   accidents  do  not   exceed   the    regular    percentage 
arranged  by  the  devil  for  each  class  and  climate  under  the 

skies. 

MADE    TOO    MUCH    OF 

But  the  freedom  of  the  young  girl  has  its  drawbacks. 
She  is— I  say  it  with  all  reluctance — ^irreverent,  from  her 
forty-dollar  bonnet  to  the  buckles  in  her  eighteen-dollar  shoes. 
She  talks  flippantly  to  her  parents  and  men  old  enough  to  be 
her  grandfather.  She  has  a  prescriptive  right  to  the  society 
of  the  man  who  arrives.     The  parents  admit  it. 

This  is  sometimes  embarrassing,  especially  when  you  call 
on  a  man  and  his  wife  for  the  sake  of  information—the  one 
being  a  merchant  of  varied  knowledge,  the  other  a  woman 
of  the  world.  In  five  minutes  your  host  has  vanished.  In 
another  five  his  wife  has  followed  him,  and  you  are  left  alone 
with  a  very  charming  maiden,  doubtless,  but  certainly  not 
the  person  you  came  to  see.  She  chatters  and  you  grin,  but 
you  leave  with  the  very  strong  impressioij  of  a  wasted  morn- 
ing. This  has  been  my  experience  once  or  twice.  I  have 
even  said  as  pointedly  as  I  dared  to  a  man : 

*'I  came  to  see  you." 

*' You'd  better  see  me  in  my  office,  then.  The  house  be- 
longs to  my  women  folk — to  my  daughter,  that  is  to  say," 

He  spoke  the  truth.  The  American  of  wealth  is  owned 
by  his  family.  They  exploit  him  for  bullion.  The  women 
get  the  ha'pence,  the  kicks  are  all  his  own.  Nothing  is  too 
good  for  an  American's  daughter  (I  speak  here  of  the  moneyed 
classes). 

The  girls  take  every  gift  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  yet 
they  develop  greatly  when  a  catastrophe  arrives  and  the  man 
of  many  millions  goes  up  or  goes  down,  and  his  daughters 
take  to  stenography  or  typewriting.  I  have  heard  many  tales 
of  heroism  from  the  lips  of  girls  who  counted  the  principals 
among  their  friends.  The  crash  came,  Mamie,  or  Hattie,  or 
Sadie  gave  up  their  maid,  their  carriages  and  candy,  and 
with  a  No.  2  Remington  and  a  stout  heart  set  about  earning 
their  daily  bread. 


246  U/orKs  of  P^udyard  l^iplip($ 

^*  And  did  I  drop  her  from  the  Hst  of  my  friends?  No, 
sir,"  said  a  scariet-lipped  vision  in  white  lace;  "that  might 
happen  to  us  any  day." 

SAN    FRANCISCO    VELOCITY 

It  may  be  this  sense  of  possible  disaster  in  the  air  that 
makes  San  Franciscan  society  go  with  so  captivating  a  rush 
and  whirl.  Recklessness  is  in  the  air.  I  can't  explain  where 
it  comes  from,  but  there  it  is.  The  roaring  winds  off  the 
Pacific  make  you  drunk  to  begin  with.  The  aggressive 
luxury  on  all  sides  helps  out  the  intoxication,  and  you  spin 
forever  "down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change"  (there  is  no 
small  change,  by  the  way,  west  of  the  Rockies)  as  long  as 
money  lasts.  They  make  greatly  and  they  spend  lavishly; 
not  only  the  rich,  but  the  artisans,  who  pay  nearly  five 
pounds  for  a  suit  of  clothes  and  for  other  luxuries  in  pro- 
portion. 

The  young  men  rejoice  in  the  days  of  their  youth.  They 
gamble,  yacht,  race,  enjoy  prize-fights  and  cock-fights,  the 
one  openly,  the  other  in  secret ;  they  establish  luxurious  clubs ; 
they  break  themselves  over  horse-flesh  and  other  things,  and 
they  are  instant  in  a  quarrel.  At  twenty  they  are  experi- 
enced in  business,  embark  in  vast  enterprises,  take  partners 
as  experienced  as  themselves,  and  go  to  pieces  with  as  much 
splendor  as  their  neighbors.  Remember  that  the  men  who 
stocked  California  in  the  fifties  were  physically  and,  as  far  as 
regards  certain  tough  virtues,  the  pick  of  the  earth.  The 
inept  and  the  weakly  died  en  route  or  went  under  in  the  days 
of  construction.  To  this  nucleus  were  added  all  the  races  of 
the  Continent — French,  Italian,  German,  and,  of  course,  the 
Jew. 

The  result  you  can  see  in  large-boned,  deep-chested^  deli- 
cate-handed women  and  long,  elastic,  well-built  boys.  It 
needs  no  little  golden  badge  swinging  from  the  watchchain 
to  mark  the  native  son  of  the  golden  West,  the  country -bred 
of  California. 

Him  I  love  because  he  is  devoid  of  fear,  carries  himself 


/ImeriGap  J^otes  24? 

like  a  man,  and  has  a  heart  as  big  as  his  books.  I  fancy, 
too,  he  knows  how  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  Hfe  that  his 
province  so  abundantly  bestows  upon  him.  At  least,  I  heard 
a  little  rat  of  a  creature  with  hock-bottle  shoulders  explaining 
that  a  man  from  Chicago  could  pull  the  eye-teeth  of  a  Cah- 
fornian  in  business. 

ABOUT    THAT    CLIMATE 

Well,  if  I  lived  in  fairy-land,  where  cherries  were  as  big 
as  plums,  plums  as  big  as  apples,  and  strawberries  of  no 
account,  where  the  procession  of  the  fruits  of  the  seasons 
was  like  a  pageant  in  a  Drury  Lane  pantomime  and  the  dry 
air  was  wine,  I  should  let  business  slide  once  in  a  way  and 
kick  up  my  heels  with  my  fellows.  The  tale  of  the  resources 
of  California — vegetable  and  mineral — is  a  fairy-tale.  You 
can  read  it  in  books.     You  would  never  believe  me. 

All  manner  of  nourishing  food,  from  sea-fish  to  beef,  may 
be  bought  at  the  lowest  prices,  and  the  people  are  conse- 
quently well  developed  and  of  a  high  stomach.  They  demand 
ten  shillings  for  tinkering  a  jammed  lock  of  a  trunk;  they 
receive  sixteen  shillings  a  day  for  working  as  carpenters; 
they  spend  many  sixpences  on  very  bad  cigars  which  the 
poorest  of  them  smoke,  and  they  go  mad  over  a  prize-fight. 
When  they  disagree  they  do  so  fatally  with  firearms  in  their 
hands  and  on  the  pubhc  streets.  I  was  just  clear  of  Mission 
Street  when  the  trouble  began  between  two  gentlemen,  one 
of  whom  perforated  the  other.  When  a  poKceman,  whose 
name  I  do  not  recollect,  "fatally  shot  Ed  Hearney"  for  at- 
tempting to  escape  arrest,  I  was  in  the  next  street.  For 
these  things  I  am  thankful.  It  is  enough  to  travel  with  a 
poHceman  in  a  tram-car,  and,  while  he  arranges  his  coat-tails 
as  he  sits  down,  to  catch  sight  of  a  loaded  revolver.  It  is 
enough  to  know  that  fifty  per  cent  of  the  men  in  the  public 
saloons  carry  pistols  about  them. 

The  Chinaman  waylays  his  adversary  and  methodically 
chops  him  to  pieces  with  his  hatchet.  Then  the  press  roars 
about  the  brutal  ferocity  of  the  pagan. 


248  U/orl^s  of  P^udyard  l^iplip^ 

The  Italian  reconstructs  his  friend  with  a  long  knife. 
The  press  complains  of  the  waywardness  of  the  alien. 

The  Irishman  and  the  native  Californian  in  their  hours 
of  discontent  use  the  revolver,  not  once,  but  six  times.  The 
press  records  the  fact  and  asks  in  the  next  column  whether 
the  world  can  parallel  the  progress  of  San  Francisco.  The 
American  who  loves  his  country  will  tell  you  that  this  sort 
of  thing  is  confined  to  the  lower  classes.  Just  at  present  an 
ex-judge  who  was  sent  to  jail  by  another  judge  (upon  my 
word  I  cannot  teU  whether  these  titles  mean  anything)  is 
breathing  red-hot  vengeance  against  his  enemy.  The  papers 
have  interviewed  both  parties  and  confidently  expect  a 
fatal  issue. 

AFRICAN-AMERICAN    TYPES 

Kow,  let  me  draw  breath  and  curse  the  negro  waiter,  and 
through  him  the  negro  in  service  generally.  He  has  been 
made  a  citizen  with  a  vote,  consequently  both  political  parties 
play  with  him.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  He  will 
commit  in  one  meal  every  betise  that  a  senllion  fresh  from 
the  plow-tail  is  capable  of,  and  he  will  continue  to  repeat 
those  faults.  He  is  as  complete  a  heavy-footed,  uncompre- 
hending, bungle-fisted  fool  as  any  memsahib  in  the  East 
ever  took  into  her  estabhshment.  But  he  is  according  to 
law  a  free  and  independent  citizen — consequently  above  re- 
proof or  criticism.  He,  and  he  alone,  in  this  insane  city,  will 
wait  at  table  (the  Chinaman  doesn't  count). 

He  is  untrained,  inept,  but  he  will  fill  the  place  and  draw 
the  pay.  !N"ow,  God  and  his  father's  fate  made  him  intel- 
lectually inferior  to  the  Oriental.  He  insists  on  pretending 
that  he  serves  tables  by  accident — as  a  sort  of  amusement. 
He  wishes  you  to  understand  this  little  fact.  You  wish  to 
eat  your  meals,  and,  if  possible,  to  have  them  properly 
served.  He  is  a  big,  black,  vain  baby  and  a  man  rolled 
into  one. 

A  colored  gentleman  who  insisted  on  getting  me  pie  when 
I  wanted  something  else  demanded  information  about  India. 
I  gave  him  some  facts  about  wages. 


/imeriGar?  J^otes  249 

**0h,  hell!"  said  he,  cheerfully,  **that  wouldn't  keep  me 
in  cigars  for  a  month." 

Then  he  fawned  on  me  for  a  ten-cent  piece.  Later  he 
took  it  upon  himself  to  pity  the  natives  of  India.  ' '  Heathens, ' ' 
he  called  them — this  woolly  one,  whose  race  has  been  the  butt 
of  every  comedy  on  the  native  stage  since  the  beginningo 
And  I  turned  and  saw  by  the  head  upon  his  shoulders  that 
he  was  a  Yoruba  man,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  ethnological 
castes.  He  did  his  thinking  in  English,  but  he  was  a  Yoruba 
negro,  and  the  race  type  had  remained  the  same  throughout 
his  generations.  And  the  room  was  full  of  other  races— 
some  that  looked  exactly  like  Gallas  (but  the  trade  was 
never  recruited  from  that  side  of  Africa),  some  duplicates  of 
Cameroon  heads,  and  some  Kroomen,  if  ever  Kroomen  wore 
evening  dress. 

The  American  does  not  consider  little  matters  of  descent, 
though  by  this  time  he  ought  to  know  all  about  '*  damnable 
heredity."  As  a  general  rule  he  keeps  himself  very  far  from 
the  negro,  and  says  things  about  him-  that  are  not  pretty. 
There  are  six  million  negroes,  more  or  less,  in  the  States^ 
and  they  are  increasing.  The  American  once  having  made 
them  citizens  cannot  unmake  them.  He  says,  in  his  news- 
papers, they  ought  to  be  elevated  by  education.  He  is  try- 
ing this,  but  it  is  likely  to  be  a  long  job,  because  black  blood 
is  much  more  adhesive  than  white  and  throws  back  with 
annoying  persistence. 

When  the  negro  gets  religion  he  returns  directly  as  a 
hiving  bee  to  the  first  instincts  of  his  people.  Just  now 
a  wave  of  religion  is  sweeping  over  some  of  the  Southern 
States. 

Up  to  the  present  two  Messiahs  and  a  Daniel  have  ap~ 
peared,  and  several  human  sacrifices  have  been  offered  up  to 
these  incarnations.  The  Daniel  managed  to  get  three  young 
men,  who  he  insisted  were  Shadrach,  Meshach  and  Abed- 
nego,  to  walk  into  a  blast  furnace,  guaranteeing  noncombus- 
tion.  They  did  not  return.  I  have  seen  nothing  of  this 
kind,  but  I  have  attended  a  negro  church — they  pray  or  are 


250  U/orl^s  of  I^adyard  l^iplip^ 

caused  to  pray  by  themselves  in  this  country.  The  congrega- 
tion were  moved  by  the  spirit  to  groans  and  tears,  and  one  of 
them  danced  up  the  aisle  to  the  mourners'  bench.  The  mo- 
tive may  have  been  genuine.  The  movements  of  the  shaken 
body  were  those  of  a  Zanzibar  stick  dance,  such  as  you  see 
at  Aden  on  the  coal-boats,  and  even  as  I  v/atched  the  people 
the  links  that  bound  them  to  the  white  man  snapped  one  by 
one,  and  I  saw  before  me  the  hubshi  (woolly  hair)  praying 
to  a  God  he  did  not  understand.  Those  neatly  dressed  folk 
on  the  benches,  the  gray-headed  elder  by  the  window,  were 
savages  neither  more  nor  less. 

AN    IKREPRESSIBLE    PROBLEM 

What  will  the  American  do  with  the  negro?  The  South 
will  not  consort  with  him.  In  some  States  miscegenation  is 
a  penal  offense.  The  ITorth  is  every  year  less  and  less  in 
need  of  his  services. 

And  he  will  not  disappear.  He  will  continue  as  a 
problem.  His  friends  will  urge  that  he  is  as  good  as  the 
white  man.  His  enemies—well,  you  can  guess  what  his 
enemies  will  do  from  a  little  incident  that  followed  on  a 
recent  appointment  by  the  President,  He  made  a  negro  an 
assistant  in  a  post-office  where— think  of  it! — he  had  to  work 
at  the  next  desk  to  a  white  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  colonel, 
one  of  the  first  families  of  Georgia's  modern  chivalry,  and 
all  the  weary,  weary  rest  of  it.  The  Southern  chivalry 
howled  and  hanged  or  burned  some  one  in  effigy.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  President,  and  perhaps  it  was  the  negro— but  the 
principle  remains  the  same.  They  said  it  was  an  insult.  It 
is  not  good  to  be  a  negro  in  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave. 

But  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  San  Francisco  and  .her 
merry  maidens,  her  strong,  swaggering  men,  and  her  wealth 
of  gold  and  pride.  They  bore  me  to  a  banquet  in  honor  of  a 
brave  lieutenant — Carlin,  of  the  "  Vandalia"— who  stuck  by 
his  ship  in  the  great  cyclone  at  Apia  and  comported  himself 
as  an  officer  should.     On  that  occasion — 'twas  at  the  Bo« 


/imerieai)  ]S[ofces  251 

hemian  Club — I  heard  oratory  with  the  roundest  of  o's,  and 
devoured  dinner  the  memory  of  which  will  descend  with  me 
into  the  hungry  grave. 

SCREAMS    FROM    THE    EAGLE 

There  were  about  forty  speeches  delivered,  and  not  one 
of  them  was  average  or  ordinary.  It  was  my  first  introduc- 
tion to  the  American  eagle  screaming  for  all  it  was  worth. 
The  lieutenant's  heroism  served  as  a  peg  from  which  the 
silver-tongued  ones  turned  themselves  loose  and  kicked. 

They  ransacked  the  clouds  of  sunset,  the  thunderbolts  of 
heaven,  the  deeps  of  hell,  and  the  splendor  of  the  resurrec- 
tion for  tropes  and  metaphors,  and  hurled  the  result  at  the 
head  of  the  guest  of  the  evening. 

Never  since  the  morning  stars  sung  together  for  joy,  I 
learned,  had  an  amazed  creation  witnessed  such  superhuman 
bravery  as  that  displayed  by  the  American  navy  in  the  Samoa 
cyclone.  Till  earth  rotted  in  the  phosphorescent  star-and- 
stripe  slime  of  a  decayed  universe  that  god-like  gallantry 
would  not  be  forgotten.  I  grieve  that  I  cannot  give  the 
exact  words.  My  attempt  at  reproducing  their  spirit  is  pale 
and  inadequate.  I  sat  bewildered  on  a  coruscating  Niagara 
of  blatherumskite.  It  was  magnificent— it  was  stupendous 
— and  I  was  conscious  of  a  wicked  desire  to  hide  my  face  in 
a  napkin  and  grin.  Then,  according  to  rule,  they  produced 
their  dead,  and  across  the  snowy  tablecloths  dragged  the 
corpse  of  every  man  slain  in  the  Civil  "War  and  hurled  defi- 
ance at  ''our  natural  enemy"  (England,  so  please  you),  *'with 
her  chain  of  fortresses  across  the  world."  Thereafter  they 
glorified  their  nation  afresh  from  the  beginning,  in  case  any 
detail  should  have  been  overlooked,  and  that  made  me  un- 
comfortable for  their  sakes.  How  in  the  world  can  a  white 
man,  a  sahib,  of  our  blood,  stand  up  and  plaster  praise  on 
his  own  country?  He  can  think  as  highly  as  he  likes,  but 
this  open-mouthed  vehemence  of  adoration  struck  me  almost 
as  indelicate.  My  hosts  talked  for  rather  more  than  three 
hours,  and  at  the  end  seemed  ready  for  three  hours  more. 


252  U/orl^6  of  Hudyard  )!{lpUT)(^ 

But  when  the  lieutenant — such  a  big,  brave,  gentle  giant 
—rose  to  bis  feet,  be  delivered  what  seemed  to  me  as  the 
speech  of  the  evening.  I  remember  nearly  the  whole  of  it, 
and  it  ran  something  in  this  way : 

"Gentlemen— It's  very  good  of  you  to  give  me  this  din- 
ner and  to  tell  me  all  these  pretty  things,  but  what  I  want 
vou  to  understand-— the  fact  is,  what  we  want  and  what  we 
ought  to  get  at  once,  is  a  navy — more  ships— lote  of  'em~" 

Then  we  howled  the  top  of  the  roof  off^  and  I  for  one  fell 
in  love  with  Carlin  on  the  spot.    Wallah!    He  was  a  man. 

The  prince  among  merchants  bade  me  take  no  heed  to 
the  war-like  sentiments  of  some  of  the  old  generals. 

**The  sky-rockets  are  thrown  In  for  effect,^*  quoth  he, 
*^and  whenever  we  get  on  our  hind  legs  we  always  express 
a  desire  to  chaw  up  England.     It's  a  sort  of  family  affair." 

And,  indeed,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  there  is  no 
other  country  for  the  American  pubhc  speaker  to  trample 
upon. 

France  has  Germany,  we  have  Russia;  for  Italy  Austria 
is  provided,  and  the  humblest  Pathan  possesses  an  ancestral 
enemy. 

Only  America  stands  out  of  the  racket,  and  therefor©  to 
be  in  fashion  makes  a  sand-bag  of  the  mother  country  and 
hangs  her  when  occasion  requires. 

**The  chain  of  fortresses"  man,  a  fascinating  talker,  ex- 
plained to  me  after  the  affair  that  he  was  compelled  to  blow 
off  steam.    Everybody  expected  it. 

When  we  had  chanted  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner"  not 
more  than  eight  times,  we  adjourned.  America  is  a  very 
great  country,  but  it  is  not  yet  heaven,  with  electric  lights 
and  plush  fittings,  as  the  speakers  professed  to  believe.  •  My 
listening  mind  went  back  to  the  politicians  in  the  saloon, 
who  wasted  no  time  in  talking  about  freedom,  but  quietly 
made  arrangements  to  impose  their  will  on  the  citizens. 

"The  judge  is  a  great  man,  but  give  thy  presents  to  the 
clerk, ' '  as  the  proverb  saith. 


/Imerieap  ffotes  253 


TRAITS    OF    THE    TYPEWEITEE 

And  what  more  remains  to  tell?     I  cannot  write  con« 
nectedly,  because  I  am  in  love  with  all  those  girls  aforesaid 
and  some  others  who  do  not  appear  in  the  invoice.     The 
typewriter  is  an  institution  of  which  the  comic  papers  make 
much  capital,  but  she  is  vastly  convenient.     She  and  a  com- 
panion rent  a  room  in  a  business  quarter,  and,  aided  by  a 
typewriting  machine,  copy  MSS.  at  the  rate  of  six  annas 
a  page.     Only  a  woman  can  operate  a  typewriting  ma« 
chine,  because  she  has  served  apprenticeship  to  the  sewing 
machine.     She  can  earn  as  much  as  one  hundred  dollars  a 
month,  and  professes  to  regard  this  form  of  bread- winning 
as  her  natural  destiny.     But,  oh!   how  she  hates  it  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  I     When  I  had  got  over  the  surprise  of  doing 
business  with  and  trying  to  give  orders  to  a  young  woman  of 
coldly,  clerkly  aspect  intrenched  behind  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles I  made  inquiries  concerning  the  pleasures  of  this  inde« 
pendence.     They  liked  it — indeed  they  dido     'Twas  the  natu- 
ral fate  of  almost  all  girls — the  recognized  custom  in  America 
— and  I  was  a  barbarian  not  to  see  it  in  that  light. 
Well,  and  after?"  said  I.     "What  happens?" 
We  work  for  our  bread," 
And  then  what  do  you  expect?" 
Then  we  shall  work  for  our  bread.'* 
Till  you  die?" 
Ye-es— unless — " 

'Unless  what?  This  is  your  business,  you  know.  A 
man  works  until  he  dies." 

"So  shall  we" — this  without  enthusiasm-— "I  suppose." 

Said  the  partner  in  the  firm  audaciously : 

"Sometimes  we  marry  our  employes — at  least,  that's 
what  the  newspapers  say." 

The  hand  banged  on  half  a  dozen  of  the  keys  of  the  ma- 
chine at  once.  *'Yet  I  don't  care.  I  hate  it — I  hate  it— I 
hate  it — and  you  needn't  loOK.  sol'' 


254  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{ip\iT)(^ 

The  senior  partner  was  regarding  the  rebel  with  grave- 
eyed  reproach. 

*'I  thought  you  did,"  said  I.  "I  don't  suppose  American 
girls  are  much  different  from  Enghsh  ones  in  instinct." 

*' Isn't  it  Theophile  Gautier  who  says  that  the  only  differ- 
ence between  country  and  country  lie  in  the  slang  and  the 
uniform  of  the  police?" 

Now,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods  at  once,  what  is  one  to 
say  to  a  young  lady  (who  in  England  would  be  a  person)  who 
earns  her  own  bread,  and  very  naturally  hates  the  employ, 
and  slings  out-of-the-way  quotations  at  your  head?  That 
one  falls  in  love  with  her  goes  without  saying,  but  that  is 
not  enough. 

A  mission  should  be  established. 


RUDYARD    KIPLING'S    AMERICAN 
CATCHES 


EPIC  STORY  OF  HEROIC  SIZE  ABOUT  EXPLOITS  IN  SALMON 
FISHING — MILITANT  AND  TRIUMPHANT — HOW  AN  EN- 
GLISHMAN PORTRAYS  AMERICAN  SPORT  TO  READERS  IN 
INDIA 

The  race  is  neither  to  the  swift  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong ;  but 
time  and  chance  cometh  to  aU 

I  HAVE  lived! 

The  American  Continent  may  now  sink  under  the  sea, 
for  I  have  taken  the  best  that  it  yields,  and  the  best  was 
neither  dollars,  love,  nor  real  estate. 

Hear  now,  gentlemen  of  the  Punjab  Fishing  Club,  who 
whip  the  reaches  of  the  Tavi,  and  you  who  painfully  import 
trout  over  to  Octamund,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  old  man 
California  and  I  went  fishing,  and  you  shall  envy. 


5> 


/imerieaij  f/otes  255 

We  returned  from  The  Dalles  to  Portland  by  the  way  we 
had  come,  the  steamer  stopping  en  route  to  pick  up  a  night's 
catch  of  one  of  the  salmon  wheels  on  the  river  and  to  deliver 
it  at  a  cannery  down- stream. 

When  the  proprietor  of  the  wheel  announced  that  his  take 
was  two  thousand  two  hundred  and  thirty  pounds'  weight  of 
fish,  ''and  not  a  heavy  catch  neither,"  I  thought  he  lied. 
But  he  sent  the  boxes  aboard,  and  I  counted  the  salmon  by  the 
hundred—huge  fiftr-pounders  hardly  dead,  scores  of  twenty 
and  thirty-pounders,  and  a  host  of  smaller  £sh.  They  were 
all  Chenook  salmon,  as  distinguished  from  the  "steel  head 
and  the  "silver  side."  That  is  to  say,  they  were  r< 
salmon,  and  California  and  I  dropped  a  tear  over  them  as 
monarchs  who  deserved  a  better  fate,  but  the  lust  of  slaugh- 
ter entered  into  our  souls,  and  we  talked  fish  and  forgot  the 
mountain  scenery  that  had  so  moved  us  a  day  before. 

The  steamer  halted  at  a  rude  wooden  warehouse  built  on 
piles  in  a  lonely  reach  of  the  river  and  sent  in  the  fish.  I 
followed  them  up  a  scale-strewn,  fishy  incline  that  led  to  the 
cannery.  The  crazy  building  was  quivering  with  the  ma- 
chinery on  its  floors  and  a  glittering  bank  of  tin  scraps 
twenty  feet  high  showed  where  the  waste  was  thrown  alt^ 
the  cans  had  been  punched. 

IK    A    CANNERY 

Only  Chinamen  were  employed  on  the  work,  and  thef 
looked  like  blood-besmeared,  yellow  devils  as  they  crossed 
the  rifts  of  sunlight  that  lay  upon  the  floor.  When  our  con-" 
signment  arrived  the  rough  wooden  boxes  broke  of  them- 
selves as  they  were  dumped  down  under  a  jet  of  water  and 
the  salmon  burst  out  in  a  stream  of  quicksilver.  A  China- 
man jerked  up  a  twenty-pounder,  beheaded  and  detailed  it 
with  two  swift  strokes  of  a  knife,  flicked  out  its  internal  ar- 
rangements with  a  third,  and  cast  it  into  a  blood-dyed  tank. 
The  headless  fish  leaped  from  under  his  hands  as  though 
they  were  facing  a  rapid.  Other  Chinamen  pulled  them 
from  the  vat  and  thrust  them  under  a  thing  like  a  chaff- 


;856  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplii)<^ 

cutter,  whicli,   descending,   hewed  them  into  unseemly  red 
gobbets  fit  for  the  can. 

More  Chinamen,  with  yellow,  crooked  fingers,  jammed 
the  stuff  into  the  cans,  which  slid  down  some  marvelous 
machine  forthwith,  soldering  their  own  tops  as  they  passed. 
Each  can  was  hastily  tested  for  flaws  and  then  sunk  with  a 
hundred  companions  into  a  vat  of  boiling  water,  there  to  be 
half  cooked  for  a  few  minutes.  The  cans  bulged  slightly 
after  the  operation,  and  were  therefore  slidden  along  by  the 
trolleyf  ul  to  men  with  needles  and  soldering-irons  who  vented 
them  and  soldered  the  aperture.  Except  for  the  label,  the 
**  Finest  Columbia  Salmon"  was  ready  for  the  market.  I 
was  impressed  not  so  much  with  the  speed  of  the  manu- 
facture as  the  character  of  the  factory.  Inside,  on  a  floor 
ninety  by  forty,  the  most  civilized  and  murderous  of  ma- 
chinery. Outside,  three  footsteps,  the  thick-growing  pines 
and  the  immense  solitude  of  the  hills.  Our  steamer  only 
stayed  twenty  minutes  at  that  place,  but  I  counted  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  finished  cans  made  from  the  catch  of  the 
previous  night  ere  I  left  the  slippery,  blood-stained,  scale- 
spangled,  oily  floors  and  the  offal-smeared  Chinamen. 

LUST    OF    SLAUGHTER 

We  reached  Portland,  California  and  I  crying  for  salmon, 
and  a  real  estate  man,  to  whom  we  had .  been  intrusted  by 
an  insurance  man,  met  us  in  the  street,  saying  that  fifteen 
miles  away,  across  country,  we  should  come  upon  a  place 
called  Clackamas,  where  we  might  perchance  find  what  we 
desired.  And  California,  his  coat-tails  flying  in  the  wind, 
ran  to  a  livery-stable  and  chartered  a  wagon  and  team  forth- 
with. I  could  push  the  wagon  about  with  one  hand,  so  light 
was  its  structure.  The  team  was  purely  American — that  is 
to  say,  almost  human  in  its  intelligence  and  docility.  Some 
one  said  that  the  roads  were  not  good  on  the  way  to  Clacka- 
mas,  and  warned  us  against  smashing  the  springs.  "Port' 
land, ' '  who  had  watched  the  preparations,  finally  reckoned 
*'He'd  come  along,  too,"  and  under  heavenly  skies  we  three 


/lmeriear>  f/otes  257 

companions  of  a  day  set  forth,  California  carefully  lashing 
our  rods  into  the  carriage  and  the  bystanders  overwhelming 
us  with  directions  as  to  the  saw-mills  we  were  to  pass,  the 
ferries  we  were  to  cross,  and  the  sign-posts  we  were  to  seek 
signs  from.  HaK  a  mile  from  this  city  of  fifty  thousand 
souls  we  struck  (and  this  must  be  taken  Kteraily)  a  plank 
road  that  would  have  been  a  disgrace  to  an  Irish  village. 

OFF    FOB    CLACKAMAS 

Then  six  miles  of  macadamized  road  showed  us  that  the 
team  could  move.  A  railway  ran  between  us  and  the  banks 
of  the  "Willamette,  and  another  above  us  through  the  moun- 
tains. All  the  land  was  dotted  with  small  townships  and  the 
roads  were  full  of  farmers  in  their  tovm  wagons,  bunches  of 
tow-haired,  boggle-eyed  urchins  sitting  in  the  hay  behind. 
The  men  generally  looked  like  loafers,  but  their  women  were 
all  well  dressed. 

Brown  braiding  on  a  tailor-made  jacket  does  not,  how- 
ever, consort  with  hay- wagons.  Then  we  struck  into  the 
v/oods  along  what  California  called  a  camina  reale—a,  good 
road — and  Portland  a  **fair  track."  It  wound  in  and  out 
among  fire-blackened  stumps  under  pine-trees,  along  the  cor- 
ners of  log  fences,  through  hollows,  which  must  be  hopeless 
marsh  in  the  winter,  and  up  absurd  gradients.  But  nowhere 
throughout  its  length  did  I  see  any  evidence  of  road-making, 
.  There  was  a  track — ^you  couldn't  well  get  off  it,  and  it  was 
aU  you  could  do  to  stay  on  it.  The  dust  lay  a  foot  thick  in 
the  blind  ruts,  and  under  the  dust  we  found  bits  of  planking 
and  bundles  of  brushwood  that  sent  the  wagon  bounding  into 
the  air  The  journey  in  itself  was  a  delight.  Sometimes 
we  crashed  through  bracken ;  anon,  where  the  blackberries 
grew  rankest,  we  found  a  lonely  little  cemetery,  the  wooden 
rails  all  awry  and  the  pitiful,  stumpy  headstones  nodding 
drunkenly  at  the  soft  green  mullions.  Then,  with  oaths  and 
the  sound  of  rent  underwood,  a  yoke  of  mighty  bulls  would 
swing  down  a  **skid"  road,  hauling  a  forty-foot  log  along  a 
rudely  made  slide. 


258  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

A  valley  full  of  wheat  and  cherry-trees  succeeded,  and 
halting  at  a  house,  we  bought  ten-pound  weight  of  luscious 
black  cherries  for  something  less  than  a  rupee  and  got  a 
drink  of  icy-cold  water  for  nothing,  while  the  untended  team 
browsed  sagaciously  by  the  roadside.  Once  we  found  a  way- 
side camp  of  horse-dealers  lounging  by  a  pool,  ready  for  a 
sale  or  a  swap,  and  once  two  sun-tanned  youngsters  shot 
down  a  hill  on  Indian  ponies,  their  full  creels  banging  from 
the  high-pommeled  saddle.  They  had  been  fishing,  and  were 
our  brethren  therefore.  We  shouted  aloud  in  chorus  to  scare 
a  wild  cat ;  we  squabbled  over  the  reasons  that  had  led  a 
snake  to  cross  a  road ;  we  heaved  bits  of  bark  at  a  venture- 
some chipmunk,  who  was  really  the  little  gray  squirrel  of 
India,  and  had  come  to  call  on  me ;  we  lost  our  way  and  got 
the  wagon  so  beautifully  fixed  on  a  khud-bound  road  that  we 
had  to  tie  the  two  hind  wheels  to  get  it  down. 

Above  all,  California  told  tales  of  Nevada  and  Arizona, 
of  lonely  nights  spent  out  prospecting,  the  slaughter  of  deer 
and  the  chase  of  men,  of  woman — lovely  woman — who  is  a 
firebrand  in  a  Western  city  and  leads  to  the  popping  of  pis- 
tols, and  of  the  sudden  changes  and  chances  of  Fortune,  who 
delights  in  making  the  miner  or  the  lumberman  a  quadrupli- 
cate millionaire  and  in  "busting"  the  railroad  king. 

DAY    TO    BE    REMEMBERED 

That  was  a  day  to  be  remembered,  and  it  had  only  begun 
when  we  drew  rein  at  a  tiny  farmhouse  on  the  banks  of  the 
Clackamas  and  sought  horse  feed  and  lodging,  ere  we  hast- 
ened to  the  river  that  broke  over  a  weir  not  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  Imagine  a  stream  seventy  yards  broad  divided 
by  a  pebbly  island,  running  over  seductive  "riffles"  and 
swirling  into  deep,  quiet  pools,  where  the  good  salmon  goes 
to  smoke  his  pipe  after  meals.  Get  such  a  stream  amid 
fields  of  breast-high  crops  surrounded  by  hills  of  pines,  throw 
in  where  you  please  quiet  water,  long-fenced  meadows,  and 
a  hundred-foot  bluff  just  to  keep  the  scenery  frora  growing 
too  monotonous,  and  you  will  get  some  faint  notion  of  the 


f{meriQ3LT)  ffotes  259 

Clackamas.  The  weir  had  been  erected  to  pen  the  Chenook 
salmon  from  going  further  up-stream.  We  could  see  them, 
twenty  or  thirty  pounds,  by  the  score  in  the  deep  pools,  or 
flying  madly  against  the  weir  and  foolishly  skinning  their 
noses.  They  were  not  our  prey,  for  they  would  not  rise  at  a 
fly,  and  we  knew  it.  All  the  same,  when  one  made  his  leap 
against  the  weir  and  landed  on  the  foot-plank  with  a  jar 
that  shook  the  board  I  was  standing  on,  I  would  fain  have 
claimed  him  for  my  own  capture. 

Portland  had  no  rod.  He  held  the  gaff  and  the  whisky. 
California  sniffed  up-stream  and  down  stream,  across  the 
racing  water,  chose  his  ground,  and  let  the  gaudy  fly  drop  in 
the  tail  of  a  riffle.  I  was  getting  my  rod  together  when  I 
heard  the  joyous  shriek  of  the  reel  and  the  yells  of  California, 
and  three  feet  of  living  silver  leaped  into  the  air  far  across 
the  water.     The  forces  were  engaged. 

BATTLE    ROYAL    WITH    SALMON 

The  salmon  tore  up-stream,  the  tense  line  cutting  the 
water  like  a  tide-rip  behind  him,  and  the  light  bamboo  bowed 
to  breaking.  What  happened  thereafter  I  cannot  tell.  Cah- 
fornia  swore  and  prayed  and  Portland  shouted  advice,  and  I 
did  all  three  for  what  appeared  to  be  half  a  day,  but  was  in 
reality  a  little  over  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  sullenly  our  flsh 
came  home  with  spurts  of  temper,  dashes  head  on  and  sara- 
bands in  the  air,  but  home  to  the  bank  came  he,  and  the 
remorseless  reel  gathered  up  the  thread  of  his  life  inch  by 
inch.  We  landed  him  in  a  little  bay,  and  the  spring  weight 
in  his  gorgeous  gills  checked  at  eleven  and  one-half  pounds. 
Eleven  and  one-half  pounds  of  fighting  salmon !  We  danced 
a  war-dance  on  the  pebbles,  and  California  caught  me  round 
the  waist  in  a  hug  that  went  near  to  breaking  my  ribs  while 
he  shouted : 

"Partner!  Partner!  This  is  glory!  Now  you  catch 
your  fish!     Twenty-four  years  I've  waited  for  this!" 

I  went  into  that  icy-cold  river  and  made  my  cast  just 
above   the  weir,  and   all  but  foul-hooked  a  blue-and-black 


260  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplir>^ 

water- snake  with  a  coral  mouth  who  coiled  herself  on  a  stone 
and  hissed  maledictions. 

The  next  cast — ah,  the  pride  of  it,  the  regal  splendor  of 
it !  the  thrill  that  ran  down  from  finger-tip  to  toe !  Then  the 
water  boiled.  He  broke  for  the  fly  and  got  it.  There  re- 
mained enough  sense  in  me  to  give  him  all  he  wanted  when 
he  jumped  not  once,  but  twenty  times,  before  the  up-stream 
flight  that  ran  my  line  out  to  the  last  half  dozen  turns,  and  I 
saw  the  nickeled  reel-bar  glitter  under  the  thinning  green 
coils.  My  thumb  was  burned  deep  when  I  strove  to  stopper 
the  hne. 

I  did  not  feel  it  till  later,  for  my  soul  was  out  in  the 
dancing  weir  praying  for  him  to  turn  ere  he  took  my  tackle 
away.  And  the  prayer  was  heard.  As  I  bowed  back,  the 
butt  of  the  rod  on  my  left  hip-bone  and  the  top  joint  dipping 
like  unto  a  weeping  willow,  he  turned  and  I  accepted  each  inch 
of  slack  that  I  could  by  any  means  get  in  as  a  favor  from  on 
high.  There  lie  several  sorts  of  success  in  this  world  that 
taste  well  in  the  moment  of  enjoyment,  but  I  question 
whether  the  stealthy  theft  of  line  from  an  able-bodied  salmon 
who  knows  exactly  what  you  are  doing  and  why  you  are 
doing  it  is  not  sweeter  than  any  other  victory  within  human 
scope.  Like  California's  fish,  he  ran  at  me  head  on  and 
leaped  against  the  line,  but  the  Lord  gave  me  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pairs  of  fingers  in  that  hour.  The  banks  and  the 
pine-trees  danced  dizzily  round  me,  but  I  only  reeled — reeled 
as  for  life— reeled  for  hours,  and  at  the  end  of  the  reehng 
continued  to  give  him  the  butt  while  he  sulked  in  a  pool. 
California  was  further  up  the  reach,  and  with  the  corner  of 
my  eye  I  could  see  him  casting  with  long  casts  and  much 
skill.  Then  he  struck  and  my  fish  broke  for  the  weir  in  the 
same  instant,  and  down  the  reach  we  came,  Cahfornia  and 
I,  reel  answering  reel  even  as  the  morning  stars  sing  together. 

SWEETS    OF    VICTORY 

The  first  wild  enthusiasm  of  capture  had  died  away.  "We 
were  both  at  work  now  in  deadly  earnest  to  prevent  the  lines 


/imerieai?  J^otes  261 

fouling,  to  stall  off  a  down-stream  rush  for  shaggy  water  just 
above  the  weir,  and  at  the  same  time  to  get  the  fish  into  the 
shallow  bay  down-stream  that  gave  the  best  practicable 
landing.  Portland  bade  us  both  be  of  good  heart,  and 
volunteered  to  take  the  rod  from  my  hands. 

I  would  rather  have  died  among  the  pebbles  than  sur- 
render my  right  to  play  and  land  a  salmon,  weight  unknown, 
with  an  eight-ounce  rod.  I  heard  California,  at  my  ear,  it 
seemed,  gasping:  "He's  a  fighter  from  Fightersville  sure!" 
as  his  fish  made  a  fresh  break  across  the  stream.  I  saw 
Portland  fall  off  a  log  fence,  break  the  overhanging  bank, 
and  clatter  down  to  the  pebbles,  all  sand  and  landing-net, 
and  I  dropped  on  a  log  to  rest  for  a  moment.  As  I  drew 
breath  the  weary  hands  slackened  their  hold  and  I  forgot  to 
give  him  the  butt. 

A  wild  scutter  in  the  water,  a  plunge,  and  a  break  for  the 
head-waters  of  the  Clackamas  was  my  reward,  and  the  weary 
toil  of  reeling  in  with  one  eye  under  the  water  and  the  other 
on  the  top  joint  of  the  rod  was  renewed.  Worst  of  all,  I  was 
blocking  California's  path  to  the  little  landing  bay  aforesaid, 
and  he  had  to  halt  and  tire  his  prize  where  he  was. 

"The  father  of  all  the  salmon!"  he  shouted.  "For  the 
love  of  Heaven,  get  your  trout  to  bank,  Johnny  Bull!" 

But  I  could  do  no  more.  Even  the  insult  failed  to  move 
me.  The  rest  of  the  game  was  with  the  salmon.  He  suffered 
himself  to  be  drawn,  skipping  with  pretended  delight  at 
getting  to  the  haven  where  I  would  fain  bring  him.  Yet  no 
sooner  did  he  feel  shoal  water  under  his  ponderous  belly  than 
he  backed  like  a  torpedo-boat,  and  the  snarl  of  the  reel  told 
me  that  my  labor  was  in  vain.  A  dozen  times,  at  least,  this 
happened  ere  the  line  hinted  he  had  given  up  the  battle  and 
would  be  towed  in.  He  was  towed.  The  landing-net  was 
useless  for  one  of  his  size,  and  I  would  not  have  him  gaffed. 
I  stepped  into  the  shallows  and  heaved  him  out  with  a  re- 
spectful hand  under  the  gill,  for  which  kindness  he  battered 
me  about  the  legs  with  his  tail,  and  I  felt  the  strength  of 
him  and  was  proud.     California  had  taken  my  place  in  the 


262  U/ort^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplip^ 

shallows,  his  fish  hard  held.  I  was  up  the  bank  lying  full 
length  on  the  sweet  scented  grass  and  gasping  in  company 
with  my  first  salmon  caught,  played  and  landed  on  an  eight- 
ounce  rod.  My  hands  were  cut  and  bleeding,  I  was  dripping 
with  sweat,  spangled  like  a  harlequin  with  scales,  water 
from  my  waist  down,  nose  peeled  by  the  sun,  but  utterly, 
supremelyj  and  consummately  happy. 

The  beauty,  the  darling,  the  daisy,  my  Salmon  Bahadur, 
weighed  twelve  pounds,  and  I  had  been  seven-and-thirty 
minutes  bringing  him  to  bank  1  He  had  been  hghtly  hooked 
on  the  angle  of  the  right  jaw  and  the  hook  had  not  wearied 
him.  That  hour  I  sat  among  princes  and  crowned  hea^ds, 
greater  than  them  all.  Below  the  bank  we  heard  California 
scuffling  with  his  salmon  and  swearing  Spanish  oaths.  Port- 
land and  I  assisted  at  the  capture,  and  the  fish  dragged  the 
spring  balance  out  by  the  roots.  It  was  only  constructed  to 
weigh  up  to  fifteen  pounds.  We  stretched  the  three  fish  on 
the  grass — the  eleven  and  a  half,  the  twelve  and  fifteen- 
pounder — and  we  gave  an  oath  that  all  who  came  after  should 
merely  be  weighed  and  put  back  again. 

RESTING    ON    LAURELS 

How  shall  I  tell  the  glories  of  that  day  so  that  you  may 
be  interested?  Again  and  again  did  California  and  I  prance 
down  that  reach  to  the  little  bay,  each  with  a  salmon  in  tow, 
and  land  him  in  the  shallovfs.  Then  Portland  took  my  rod 
and  caught  some  ten-pounders,  and  my  spoon  was  carried 
away  by  an  unknown  leviathan.  Each  fish,  for  the  merits 
of  the  three  that  had  died  so  gamely,  was  hastily  hooked  on 
the  balance  and  flung  back.  Portland  recorded  the  weight 
in  a  pocket-book,  for  he  was  a  real  estate  man.  Each  fish 
fought  for  all  he  was  worth,  and  none  more  savagely  than 
the  smallest,  a  game  little  six-pounder.  At  the  end  of  six 
hours  we  added  up  the  list.  Read  it.  Total :  Sixteen  fish ; 
aggregate  weight,  one  hundred  and  forty  pounds.  The  score 
in  detail  runs  something  like  this — ^it  is  only  interesting  to 
those  concerned ;  fifteen,  eleven  and  a  half,  twelve,  ten,  nine 


/imerieai)  f^otes  263 

and  three-quarters,  eight,  and  so  forth;  as  I  have  said, 
nothing  under  six  pounds,  and  three  ten-pounders. 

Very  solemnly  and  thankfully  we  put  up  our  rods — it  was 
glory  enough  for  all  time — and  returned  weeping  in  each 
other's  arms,  weeping  tears  of  pure  joy,  to  that  simple,  bare- 
legged family  in  the  packing-house  by  the  water-side. 

The  old  farmer  recollected  days  and  nights  of  fierce 
warfare  with  the  Indians  "way  back  in  the  fifties,"  when 
every  ripple  of  the  Columbia  River  and  her  tributaries  hid 
covert  danger.  God  had  dowered  him  with  a  queer,  crooked 
gift  of  expression  and  a  fierce  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  his 
two  little  sons — tanned  and  reserved  children,  who  attended 
school  daily  and  spoke  good  English  in  a  strange  tongue. 

His  wife  was  an  austere  woman,  who  had  once  been 
kindly,  and  perhaps  handsome. 

Very  many  years  of  toil  had  taken  the  elasticity  out  of 
step  and  voice.  She  looked  for  nothing  better  than  everlast- 
ing work — the  chafing  detail  of  housework- — and  then  a  grave 
somewhere  up  the  hill  among  the  blackberries  and  the  pines. 
But  in  her  grim  way  she  sympathized  with  her  eldest 
daughter,  a  small  and  silent  maiden  of  eighteen,  who  had 
thoughts  very  far  from  the  meals  she  tended  and  the  pans 
she  scoured. 

We  stumbled  into  the  household  at  a  crisis,  and  there  was 
a  deal  of  downright  humanity  in  that  same.  A  bad,  wicked 
dressmaker  had  promised  the  maiden  a  dress  in  time  for  a 
to-morrow's  railway  journey,  and  though  the  barefooted 
Georgy,  who  stood  in  very  wholesome  awe  of  his  sister,  had 
scoured  the  woods  on  a  pony  in  search,  that  dress  never 
arrived.  So,  with  sorrow  in  her  heart  and  a  hundred  Sister- 
Anne  glances  up  the  road,  she  waited  upon  the  strangers 
and,  I  doubt  not,  cursed  them  for  the  wants  that  stood 
between  her  and  her  need  for  tears.  It  was  a  genuine  little 
tragedy.  The  mother,  in  a  heavy,  passionless  voice,  rebuked 
her  impatience,  yet  sat  up  far  into  the  night,  bowed  over  a 
heap  of  sewing  for  the  daughter's  benefit. 

These  things  I  beheld  in  the  long  marigold-scented  twi- 


*264  U/orKs  of  ^adyard  l^iplip^ 

light  and  whispering  night,  loafing  round  the  little  house 
with  Californiaj  who  unfolded  himself  like  a  lotus  to  the 
moon,  or  in  the  little  boarded  bunk  that  was  our  bedroom, 
swapping  tales  with  Portland  and  the  old  man. 

Most  of  the  yarns  began  in  this  way : 

*'Red  Larry  was  a  bull-puncher  back  of  Lone  County, 
Montana,"  or  ** There  was  a  man  riding  the  trail  met  a  jack- 
rabbit  sitting  in  a  cactus,"  or  *"Bout  the  time  of  the  San 
Diego  land  boom  a  woman  from  Monterey,"  etc. 

You  can  try  to  piece  out  for  yourselves  what  sort  of  stories 
they  were. 


.UDYARD    KIPLING    ASTRIDE   THE 

CLOUDS 


INTOXICATED  BY  DEEP  DRAUGHTS  OF  YELLOWSTONE  WON- 
DERS—AMERICAN BEAT  ENGLISH  MANNERS  —  WORD- 
PAINTING  ADEQUATE  TO  THE  SOCIETY  AND  INSPIRA- 
TION  OF  A  NEW   HAMPSHIRE   GIRL. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  carter  who  brought  his 
team  and  a  friend  into  the  Yellowstone  Park  without  due 
thought.  Presently  they  came  upon  a  few  of  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  place,  and  that  carter  turned  his  team  into  his 
friend's  team,  howling : 

*'Get  out  o'  this,  Jim3     All  hell's  alight  under  our  noses !" 

And  they  called  the  place  Hell's  Half- Acre  to  this  day  to 
witness  if  the  carter  lied. 

We,  too,  the  old  lady  from  Chicago,  her  husband,  Tom, 
and  the  good  little  mares,  came  to  Hell's  Half- Acre,  which 
is  about  sixty  acres  in  extent,  and  when  Tom  said : 

''Would  you  like  to  drive  over  it?" 

We  said : 

"Certainly  not,  and  if  you  do  we  shall  report  you  to  the 
park  authorities." 


^mericap  f/otes  365 

There  was  a  plain,  blistered  and  peeled  and  abominable, 
and  it  was  given  over  to  the  sportings  and  spoutings  of 
devils  who  threw  mud,  and  steam,  and  dirt  at  each  other 
with  whoops,  and  halloos,  and  bellowing  curses. 

The  places  smelled  of  the  refuse  of  the  pit,  and  that  odor 
mixed  with  the  clean,  wholesome  aroma  of  the  pines  in  our 
nostrils  throughout  the  day. 

LAID     OUT     LIKE    OLLENDORF 

This  Yellowstone  Park  is  laid  out  like  OUendorf ,  in  exer- 
cises of  progressive  difficulty.  HelPs  Half- Acre  was  a  pre- 
lude to  ten  or  twelve  miles  of  geyser  formation. 

We  passed  hot  streams  boiling  in  the  forest;  saw  whiffs 
of  steam  beyond  these,  and  yet  other  whiffs  breaking  through 
the  misty  green  hills  in  the  far  distance;  we  trampled  on 
sulphur  in  crystals,  and  sniffed  things  much  worse  than  any 
sulphur  which  is  known  to  the  upper  world ;  and  so  journey- 
ing,  bewildered  with  the  novelty,  came  upon  a  really  park- 
like place  where  Tom  suggested  we  should  get  out  and  play 
with  the  geysers  on  foot. 

Imagine  mighty  green  fields  splattered  with  lime-beds, 
all  the  flowers  of  the  summer  growing  up  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  lime.     That  was  our  first  glimpse  of  the  geyser  basins. 

The  buggy  had  pulled  up  close  to  a  rough,  broken,  blistered 
cone  of  spelter  stuff  between  ten  and  twenty  feet  high.  There 
was  trouble  in  that  place — moaning,  splashing,  gurgling,  and 
the  clank  of  machinery.  A  spurt  of  boiling  water  jumped 
into  the  air  and  a  wash  of  water  followed. 

I  removed  swiftly.  The  old  lady  from  Chicago  shrieked. 
*'What  a  wicked  waste,"  said  her  husband. 

I  think  they  call  it  the  Riverside  Geyser.  Its  spout  was 
torn  and  ragged  Hke  the  mouth  of  a  gun  when  a  shell  has 
burst  there.  It  grumbled  madly  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  was  still.  I  crept  over  the  steaming  lime^it  was  the 
burning  marl  on  which  Satan  lay—and  looked  fearfully  down 
its  mouth.  You  should  never  look  a  gift  geyser  in  the 
mouth. 
Vol.  3.  12 


^66  U/or^s  of  F^adyard  K*pliQ<J 

devil's  bethesda 

I  beheld  a  horrible,  slippery,  slimy  funnel  with  water 
rising  and  falling  ten  feet  at  a  time.  Then  the  water  rose  to 
lip  level  with  a  rush,  and  an  infernal  bubbling  troubled  this 
Devil's  Bethesda  before  the  sullen  heave  of  the  crest  of  a  wave 
lapped  over  the  edge  and  made  me  run. 

Mark  the  nature  of  the  human  soul.  I  had  begun  with 
awe,  not  to  say  terror,  for  this  was  my  first  experience  of 
such  things.  I  stepped  back  from  the  banks  of  the  Riverside 
Geyser,  saying: 

"Pooh!     Is  that  aU  it  can  do?" 

Yet  for  aught  I  knew  the  whole  thing  might  have  blown 
up  at  a  minute's  notice,  she,  he,  or  it  being  an  arrangement 
of  uncertain  temper. 

We  drifted  on,  up  that  miraculous  valley.  On  either 
side  of  us  were  hills  from  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  feet 
high,  wooded  from  crest  to  heel.  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
range  forward  were  columns  of  steam  in  the  air,  misshapen 
lumps  of  lime,  mist-like  preadamite  monsters,  still  pools  of 
turquois-blue  stretches  of  blue  corn-flowers,  a  river  that 
coiled  on  itself  twenty  times,  pointed  bowlders  of  strange 
colors,  and  ridges  of  glaring,  staring  white. 

A  moon-faced  trooper  of  German  extraction — never  was 
park  so  carefully  patroled — came  up  to  inform  us  that  as  yet 
we  had  not  seen  any  of  the  real  geysers ;  that  they  were  all 
a  mile  or  so  up  the  valley,  and  tastefully  scattered  round  the 
hotel  in  which  we  would  rest  for  the  night. 

THE    trooper's    STORY 

America  is  a  free  country,  but  the  citizens  look  down  on 
the  soldier.  I  had  to  entertain  that  trooper.  The  old  lady 
from  Chicago  would  have  none  of  him;  so  we  loafed  alone 
together,  now  across  half-rotten  pine  logs  sunk  in  swampy 
ground,  anon  over  the  ringing  geyser  formation,  then  pound- 
ing through  river-sand  or  brushing  knee-deep  through  long 
grass. 


flmeriGap  f/otes  267 


«e 


"And  why  did  you  enlist?"  said  I. 

The  moon-faced  one's  face  began  to  work.  I  thought  he 
would  have  a  fit,  but  h©  told  me  a  story  instead — such  a  nice 
tale  of  a  naughty  little  girl  who  wrote  pretty  love  letters  to 
two  men  at  once.  She  was  a  simple  village  wife,  but  a 
wicked  **family  novelette"  countess  couldn't  have  accom- 
plished her  ends  better.  She  drove  one  man  nearly  wild 
with  the  pretty  little  treachery,  and  the  other  man  abandoned 
her  and  came  West  to  forget  the  trickery. 

Moonface  was  that  man. 

GOBLIN    BATHTUBS 

We  rounded  and  limped  over  a  low  spur  of  hill  and  came 
out  upon  a  field  of  aching  snowy  lime,  rolled  in  sheets,  twisted 
into  knots,  riven  with  rents,  and  diamonds,  and  stars,  stretch- 
ing for  more  than  half  a  mile  in  every  direction. 

On  this  place  of  despair  lay  most  of  the  big.  bad  geysers 
who  know  when  there  is  trouble  in  Krakatoa^  who  tell  the 
pines  when  there  is  a  cyclone  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  and 
who  are  exhibited  to  visitors  under  pretty  and  fanciful  names. 

The  first  mound  that  I  encountered  belonged  to  a  goblin 
who  was  splashing  in  his  tub.  I  heard  him  kick,  pull  a 
shower-bath  on  his  shoulders,  gasp,  crack  his  joints,  and  rub 
himself  down  with  a  towel ;  then  he  let  the  water  out  of  the 
bath,  as  a  thoughtful  man  should,  and  it  all  sunk  down  out 
of  sight  till  another  gobhn  arrived. 

So  we  looked  and  we  wondered  at  the  Beehive,  whose 
mouth  is  built  up  exactly  hke  a  hive,  at  the  Turban  (which 
is  not  in  the  least  like  a  turban),  and  at  many,  many  other 
geysers,  hot  holes,  and  springs.  Some  of  them  rumbled, 
some  hissed,  some  went  off  spasmodically,  and  others  lay 
dead  still  in  sheets  of  sapphire  and  beryl. 

TURNING    A    geyser's    STOMACH 

Would  you  believe  that  even  these  terrible  creatures  have 
to  be  guarded  by  the  troopers  to  prevent  the  irreverent  Ameri- 
can from  chipping  the  cones  to  pieces,  or,  worse  still,  making 


268  U/orKs  of  I^adyard  \{\pVir)(^ 

the  geyser  sick?  If  you  take  of  soft-soap  a  small  barreKul 
and  drop  it  down  a  geyser's  mouth,  that  geyser  will  pres- 
ently be  forced  to  lay  all  before  you  and  for  days  afterward 
will  be  of  an  irritated  and  inconstant  stomach. 

When  they  told  me  the  tale  I  was  filled  with  sympathy. 
!N"ow  I  wish  that  I  had  soft-soap  and  tried  the  experiment  on 
some  lonely  little  beast  far  away  in  the  woods.  It  sounds  so 
probable  and  so  human. 

Yet  he  would  be  a  bold  man  who  would  administer  emet- 
ics to  the  Giantess.  She  is  flat-lipped,  having  no  mouth, 
she  looks  like  a  pool,  fifty  feet  long  and  thirty  wide,  and 
there  is  no  ornamentation  about  her.  At  irregular  intervals 
she  speaks  and  sends  up  a  column  of  water  over  two  hundred 
feet  high  to  begin  with,  then  she  is  angry  for  a  day  and  a 
half — sometimes  for  two  days. 

Owing  to  her  peculiarity  of  going  mad  in  the  night,  not 
many  people  have  seen  the  Giantess  at  her  finest ;  but  the 
clamor  of  her  unrest,  men  say,  shakes  the  wooden  hotel  and 
echoes  like  thnnder  among  the  hills. 

UNCLE    SAM'S    SOLDIEES 

The  congregation  returned  to  the  hotel  to  put  down  their 
impressions  in  diaries  and  note-books  which  they  wrote  up 
ostentatiously  in  the  verandas.  It  was  a  sweltering  hot  day, 
albeit  we  stood  somewhat  higher  than  the  level  of  Simla,  and 
I  left  that  raw  pine  creaking  caravansary  for  the  cool  shade 
of  a  clump  of  pines  between  whose  trunks  glimmered  tents. 

A  batch  of  United  States  troopers  came  down  the  road 
and  flung  themselves  across  the  country  into  their  rough 
lines.  The  Melican  cavalryman  can  ride,  though  he  keeps 
his  accou torments  pig-fashion  and  his  horse  cow-fashion. 

I  was  free  of  that  camp  in  five  minutes — free  to  play  with 
the  heavy,  lumpy  carbines,  have  the  saddles  stripped,  and 
punch  the  horses  knowingly  in  the  ribs.  One  of  the  men 
had  been  in  the  fight  with  "  Wrap-up-his-Tail, "  and  he  told 
me  how  that  great  chief,  his  horse's  tail  tied  up  in  red  calico, 
swaggered  in  front  of  the  United  States  cavalry,  challenging 


fimQTiQzi)  f/otes  269 

all  to  single  combat.  But  he  was  slain,  and  a  few  of  his 
tribe  with  him. 

"There's  no  use  in  an  Indian,  anyway,"  concluded  my 
friend. 

A  couple  of  cow-boys — real  cow-boys — jingled  through 
the  camp  amid  a  shower  of  mild  chaff.  They  were  on  their 
way  to  Cook  City,  I  fancy,  and  I  know  that  they  never 
washed.  But  they  were  picturesque  ruffians  exceedingly, 
with  long  spurs,  hooded  stirrups,  slouch  hats,  fur  weather- 
cloth  over  their  knees,  and  pistol-butts  just  easy  to  hand. 

"The  cow-boy's  goin'  under  before  long,"  said  my  friend. 
"Soon  as  the  country's  settled  up  he'll  have  to  go.  But  he's 
mighty  useful  now.  What  would  we  do  without  the  cow- 
boy?" 

WHAT    COW-BOYS    AEE    GOOD    FOR 

"As  how?"  said  I,  and  the  camp  laughed. 

"He  has  the  money.  We  have  the  skill.  He  comes  in 
winter  to  play  poker  at  the  military  posts.  We  play  poker 
— a  few.  When  he's  lost  his  money  we  make  him  drunk 
and  let  him  go.     Sometimes  we  get  the  wrong  man." 

And  he  told  me  a  tale  of  an  innocent  cow-boy  who  turned 
up,  cleaned  out,  at  an  army  post,  and  played  poker  for  thirty- 
six  hours.  But  it  was  the  post  that  was  cleaned  out  when 
that  long-haired  Caucasian  removed  himself,  heavy  with 
everybody's  pay  and  declining  the  proffered  liquor. 

"Noaw,"  said  the  historian,  "I  don't  play  with  no  cow- 
boy unless  he's  a  httle  bit  drunk  first." 

Ere  I  departed  I  gathered  from  more  than  one  man  tho 
significant  fact  that  up  to  one  hundred  yards  he  felt  abso- 
lutely secure  behind  his  revolver. 

"In  England,  I  understand,"  quoth  the  Hmber  youth  from 
the  South,  "in  England  a  man  isn't  allowed  to  play  with  no 
firearms.  He's  got  to  be  taught  all  that  when  he  enhsts.  I 
didn't  want  much  teaching  how  to  shoot  straight  'fore  I  served 
Uncle  Sam.  And  that's  just  where  it  is.  But  you  was  talk- 
ing about  your  Horse  Guards  now?" 

I  explained  briefly  some  peculiarities  of  equipment  con- 


270  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii>($ 

nected  with  our  crackest  crack  cavalry.     I  grieve  to  say  the 
camp  roared. 

"Tak«  'em  over  swampy  ground.  Let  'em  run  around 
a  bit  an'  work  the  starch  out  of  'em,  an'  then,  Almighty,  if 
we  wouldn't  plug  'em  at  ease  I'd  eat  their  horses." 

A    HENRY    JAMES    MAIDEN 

There  was  a  maiden — a  very  little  maiden — who  had  just 
stepped  out  of  one  of  James's  novels.  She  owned  a  delight- 
ful mother  and  an  equally  delightful  father — a  heavy-eyed, 
slow-voiced  man  of  finance.  The  parents  thought  that  their 
daughter  wanted  change. 

She  hved  in  New  Hampshire.  Accordingly,  she  had 
dragged  them  up  to  Alaska  and  to  the  Yosemite  Valley,  and 
was  now  returning  leisurely  via  the  Yellowstone  just  in  time 
for  the  tail-end  of  the  summer  season  at  Saratoga. 

We  had  met  once  or  twice  before  in  the  park,  and  I  had 
been  amazed  and  amused  at  her  critical  commendation  of  the 
wonders  that  she  saw.  From  that  very  resolute  little  mouth 
I  received  a  lecture  on  American  literature,  the  nature  and 
inwardness  of  "Washington  society,  the  precise  value  of 
Cable's  works  as  compared  with  Uncle  Remus  Harris,  and 
a  few  other  things  that  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
geysers,  but  were  altogether  pleasant. 

ITow,  an  English  maiden  who  had  stumbled  on  a  dust- 
grimed,  lime-washed,  sun-peeled,  collarless  wanderer  come 
from  and  going  to  goodness  knows  where,  would,  her  mother 
inciting  her  and  her  father  brandishing  his  umbrella,  have 
regarded  him  as  a  dissolute  adventurer — a  person  to  be  dis- 
regarded. 

AMERICAN    VERSUS     ENGLISH    MANNERS 

!N'ot  so  those  delightful  people  from  New  Hampshire, 
They  were  good  enough  to  treat  him — it  sounds  almost  in- 
credible— ^as  a  human  being,  possibly  respectable,  probably 
not  in  immediate  need  of  financial  assistance. 

Papa  talked  pleasantly  and  to  the  point. 

The  little  maiden  strove  valiantly  with  the  accent  of  her 


f\mer'iQ2LT)  flotes  271 

birth  and  that  of  her  rearing,  and  mamma  smiled  benignly 
in  the  background. 

Balance  this  with  a  story  of  a  young  English  idiot  I  met 
mooning  about  inside  his  high  collar,  attended  by  a  valet. 
He  condescended  to  tell  me  that  *'you  can't  be  too  careful 
who  you  talk  to  in  these  parts."  And  stalked  on  fearing,  I 
suppose,  every  minute  for  his  social  chastity. 

That  man  was  a  barbarian  (I  took  occasion  to  tell  him 
so),  for  he  comported  himself  after  the  manner  of  the  head- 
hunters  and  hunted  of  Assem  who  are  at  perpetual  feud  one 
with  another. 

You  will  understand  that  these  foolish  stories  are  intro- 
duced in  order  to  cover  the  fact  that  this  pen  cannot  describe 
the  glories  of  the  Upper  Geyser  Basin.  The  evening  I  spent 
under  the  lee  of  the  Castle  Geyser,  sitting  on  a  log  with  some 
troopers  and  watching  a  baronial  keep  forty  feet  high  spout- 
ing hot  water.  If  the  Castle  went  off  first  they  said  the 
Giantess  would  be  quiet,  and  vice  versd,  and  then  they  told 
tales  till  the  moon  got  up  and  a  party  of  campers  in  the 
woods  gave  us  all  something  to  eat. 

CHANCE     CAVALRY    ESCORT 

Then  came  soft,  turfy  forest  that  deadened  the  wheels, 
and  two  troopers  on  detachment  duty  stole  noiselessly  behind 
us.  One  was  the  Wrap-up-his-Tail  man,  and  they  talked 
merrily  while  the  half -broken  horses  bucked  about  among 
the  trees.  And  so  a  cavalry  escort  was  with  us  for  a  mile, 
till  we  got  to  a  mighty  hill  all  strewn  with  moss  agates,  and 
everybody  had  to  jump  out  and.  pant  in  that  thin  air.  But 
how  intoxicating  it  was !  The  old  lady  from  Chicago  ducked 
like  an  emancipated  hen  as  she  scuttled  about  the  road,  cram- 
ming pieces  of  rock  into  her  recticule.  She  sent  me  fifty 
yards  down  to  the  hillside  to  pick  up  a  piece  of  broken  bottle 
which  she  insisted  was  moss  agate. 

*'I've  some  o'  that  at  home,  an'  they  shine.  Yes,  you 
go  get  it,  young  man," 

As  we  climbed  the  long  path  the  road  grew  viler  and  viler 


272  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^fplii)^ 

till  it  became,  witliout  disguise,  the  bed  of  a  torrent;  and 
just  when  things  were  at  their  rockiest  we  nearly  fell  into  a 
little  sapphire  lake— but  noYer  sapphire  was  so  blue — called 
Mary's  Lake;  and  that  between  eight  and  nine  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea. 

Afterward,  grass  downs,  all  on  a  vehement  slope,  so  that 
the  buggy,  following  the  new-made  road,  ran  on  the  two  off- 
wheels  mostly  till  we  dipped  head-first  into  a  ford,  climbed 
up  a  cliff,  raced  along  down,  dipped  again,  and  pulled  up 
disheveled  at  *' Larry's"  for  lunch  and  an  hour's  rest. 

Then  we  lay  on  the  grass  and  laughed  with  sheer  bliss  of 
being  alive.  This  have  I  known  once  in  Japan,  once  on  the 
banks  of  the  Columbia,  what  time  the  salmon  came  in  and 
California  howled,  and  once  again  in  the  Yellowstone  by  the 
light  of  the  eyes  of  the  maiden  from  New  Hampshire.  Four 
little  pools  lay  at  my  elbow,  one  was  of  black  water  (tepid), 
one  clear  water  (cold),  one  clear  water  (hot),  one  red  water 
(boiling) .  My  newly  washed  handkerchief  covered  them  all, 
and  we  two  marveled  as  children  marvel. 

DOING    THE    CANYON 

*'This  evening  we  shall  do  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the 
Yellowstone,"  said  the  maiden. 

''Together?"  said  I;  and  she  said,  "Yes." 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  sink  when  we  heard  the  roar 
of  falling  waters  and  came  to  a  broad  river  along  whose 
banks  we  ran.  And  then — I  might  at  a  pinch  describe  the 
infernal  regions,  but  not  the  other  place.  The  Yellowstone 
River  has  occasion  to  run  through  a  gorge  about  eight  miles 
long.  To  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  gorge  it  makes  two  leaps, 
one  of  about  one  hundred  and  twenty  and  the  other  of  three 
hundred  feet.  I  investigated  the  upper  or  lesser  fall,  which 
is  close  to  the  hotel. 

Up  to  that  time  nothing  particular  happens  to  the  Yel- 
lowstone—its banks  being  onlj^  rocky,  rather  steep,  and 
plentifully  adorned  with  pines. 

At  the  falls  it  comes  round  a  corner,  green,  solid,  ribbed 


/Imerieai?  ffotes  273 

with  a  little  foam,  and  not  more  than  thirty  yards  wide. 
Then  it  goes  over,  still  green,  and  rather  more  solid  than 
before.  After  a  minute  or  two  you,  sitting  upon  a  rock 
directly  above  the  drop,  begin  to  understand  that  some- 
thing has  occurred;  that  the  river  has  jumped  between 
solid  cliff  walls,  and  that  the  gentle  froth  of  water  lapping 
the  sides  of  the  gorge  below  is  really  the  outcome  of  great 
waves. 

And  the  river  yells  aloud ;  but  the  cliffs  do  not  allow  the 
yells  to  escape. 

That  inspection  began  with  curiosity  and  finished  in  terror, 
for  it  seemed  that  the  whole  world  was  sliding  in  chrysolite 
from  undar  my  feet.  I  followed  with  the  others  round  the 
corner  to  arrive  at  the  brink  of  the  canyon.  We  had  to  climb 
up  a  nearly  perpendicular  ascent  to  begin  with,  for  the  ground 
rises  more  than  the  river  drops.  Stately  pine  woods  fringe 
either  lip  of  the  gorge,  which  is  the  gorge  of  the  Yellowstone. 
You'll  find  ali  about  it  in  the  guide  books. 

SOME    WORD-PAINTING 

All  that  I  can  say  is  that  without  warning  or  preparation 
I  looked  into  a  gulf  seventeen  hundred  feet  deep  with  eagles 
and  fish-hawks  circling  far  below.  And  the  sides  of  that 
gulf  were  one  wild  welter  of  color — crimson,  emerald,  cobalt, 
ocher,  amber,  honey  splashed  with  port  wine,  snow  white, 
vermilion,  lemon,  and  silver  gray  in  wide  washes.  The  sides 
did  not  fall  sheer,  but  were  graven  by  time,  and  water,  and 
air  into  monstrous  heads  of  kings,  dead  chiefs — men  and 
women  of  the  old  time.  So  far  below  that  no  sound  of  its 
strife  could  reach  us,  the  Yellowstone  River  ran  a  finger- 
wide  strip  of  jade  green. 

The  sunlight  took  those  wondrous  walls  and  gave  fresh 
hues  to  those  that  nature  had  already  laid  there. 

Evening  crept  through  the  pines  that  shadowed  us,  but 
the  full  glory  of  the  day  fiamed  in  that  canyon  as  we  went 
out  very  cautiously  to  a  jutting  piece  of  rock — blood-red  oi 
pink  it  was^ — that  overhung  the  deepest  deeps  of  all. 


274  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  i^iplip^ 

Now  I  know  what  it  is  to  sit  enthroned  amid  the  clouds 
of  sunset  as  the  spirits  sit  in  Blake's  pictures.  Giddiness 
took  away  all  sensation  of  touch  or  form,  but  the  sense  of 
blinding  color  remained. 

When  I  reached  the  mainland  again  I  had  sworn  that  I 
had  been  floating. 

The  maid  from  "New  Hampshire  said  no  word  for  a  very- 
long  time.  Then  she  quoted  poetry,  which  was  perhaps  the 
best  thing  she  could  have  done. 

'^And  think  that  this  show-place  has  been  going  on  all 
these  days  an'  none  of  we  ever  saw  it,"  said  the  old  lady  from 
Chicago,  with  an  acid  glance  at  her  husband. 

"No,  only  the  Injians,"  said  he,  unmoved;  and  the 
maiden  and  I  laughed. 

TOYING  WITH  IMMENSITIES 

Inspiration  is  fleeting,  beauty  is  vain,  and  the  power  of 
the  mind  for  wonder  limited.  Though  the  shining  hosts 
themselves  had  risen  choiring  from  the  bottom  of  the  gorge, 
they  would  not  have  prevented  her  papa  and  one  baser  than 
he  from  rolling  stones  down  those  stupendous  rainbow-washed 
slides.  Seventeen  hundred  feet  of  steepest  pitch  and  rather 
more  than  seventeen  hundred  colors  for  log  or  bowlder  to 
whirl  through! 

So  we  heaved  things  and  saw  them  gather  way  and  bound 
from  white  rock  to  red  or  yellow,  dragging  behind  them  tor° 
rents  of  color,  till  the  noise  of  their  descent  ceased  and  they 
bounded  a  hundred  yards  clear  at  the  last  into  the  Yellow- 
stone. 

**I've  been  down  there,"  said  Tom,  that  evening.  "It's 
easy  to  get  down  if  you're  careful— just  sit  an'  shde;  but 
getting  up  is  worse.  An'  I  found  down  below  there  two 
stones  just  marked  with  a  picture  of  the  canyon.  I  wouldn't 
sell  these  rocks  not  for  fifteen  dollars." 

And  papa  and  I  crawled  down  to  the  Yellowstone — just 
above  the  first  little  fall— to  wet  a  line  for  good  luck.  The 
round  moon  came  up  and  turned  the  cHfls  and  pines  into 


/imeriGai)  flotes  275 

silver ;  and  a  two-pound  trout  came  up  also,  and  we  slew  liim 
among  the  rocks,  nearly  tumbling  into  that  wild  river. 

Then  out  and  away  to  Livingstone  once  more.  The 
maiden  from  New  Hampshire  disappeared,  papa  and  mamma 
with  her.  Disappeared,  too,  the  old  lady  from  Chicago,  and 
the  others. 


POOR    CHICAGO    KIPLING-STRUCK 


AMERICA'S  YOUNG  PRODIGY  FROM  AN  EXTREMELY  ORIENTAL. 
POINT  OF  VIEW — WRITING  DOWN  TO  INDIAN  LEVELS — 
RUDYARD  KIPLING  TELLS  WHAT  HE  COULD  NOT  LEARN 
ABOUT   CHICAGO   IN   TEN   HOURS 

"I  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  willful  deed, 
And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material." 

I  HAVE  struck  a  city — a  real  city — and  they  call  it  Chicago. 

The  other  places  do  not  count.  San  Francisco  was  a 
pleasure-resort  as  weU  as  a  city,  and  Salt  Lake  was  a  phe- 
nomenon. 

This  place  is  the  first  American  city  I  have  encountered. 
It  holds  rather  more  than  a  million  people  with  bodies,  and 
stands  on  the  same  sort  of  soil  as  Calcutta.  Having  seen  it, 
I  urgently  desire  never  to  see  it  again.  It  is  inhabited  by 
savages.  Its  water  is  the  water  of  the  Hooghly,  and  its  air 
is  dirt.     Also  it  says  that  it  is  the  "boss'*  town  of  America. 

I  do  not  believe  that  it  has  anything  to  do  with  this 
country.  They  told  me  to  go  to  the  Pahner  House,  which  is 
overmuch  gilded  and  mirrored,  and  there  I  found  a  huge 
hall  of  tesselated  marble  crammed  with  people  talking  about 
money  and  spitting  about  everywhere.  Other  barbarians 
charged  in  and  out  of  this  inferno  with  letters  and  telegrams 


276  U/or^s  of  ^udyard  I^iplii?^ 

in  their  hands,  and  jet  others  shouted  at  each  other.  A  man 
who  had  drunk  quite  as  much  as  was  good  for  him  told  me 
that  this  was  **the  finest  hotel  in  the  finest  city  on  God 
Almighty's  earth."  By  the  way,  when  an  American  wishes 
to  indicate  the  next  country  or  state,  he  says,  **God  A'mighty's 
earth.  ^'     This  prevents  discussion  and  flatters  his  vanity. 

Then  I  went  out  into  the  streets,  which  are  long  and  flat 
and  without  end.  And  verily  it  is  not  a  good  thing  to  live 
in  the  East  for  any  length  of  time.  Tour  ideas  grow  to  clash 
with  those  held  by  every  right-thinking  man,  I  looked  down 
interminable  viitas  "Sanked  with  ninoj  ten,  and  fifteen-storied 
houses,  and  crowded  with  men  and  women,  and  the  show 
impressed  m.©  with  a  great  horror. 

Except  in  London — and  I  have  forgotten  what  London 
was  like — I  had  never  seen  so  many  white  people  together, 
and  never  such  a  collection  of  miser ables.  There  was  no 
color  in  the  street  and  no  beauty — only  a  maze  of  wire  ropes 
overhead  and  dirty  stone  flagging  under  foot. 

THROUGH  A   CAB-DRIVER'S   LENS 

A  cab-driver  volunteered  to  show  me  the  glory  of  the 
town  for  so  much  an  hour,  and  with  him  I  wandered  far. 
He  conceived  that  all  this  turmoil  and  squash  was  a  thing  to 
be  reverently  admired,  that  it  was  good  to  huddle  men  to- 
gether in  fifteen  layers,  one  atop  of  the  other,  and  to  dig 
holes  in  the  ground  for  offices. 

He  said  that  Chicago  was  a  live  town,  and  that  all  the 
creatures  hurrying  by  me  were  engaged  in  business.  That  is 
to  say  they  were  trying  to  make  some  money  that  they  might 
not  die  through  lack  of  food  to  put  into  their  bellies.  He 
took  me  to  canals  as  black  as  ink,  and  filled  with  untold 
abominations,  and  bade  me  watch  the  stream  of  traffic  across 
the  bridges. 

He  then  took  me  into  a  saloon,  and,  while  I  drank,  made 
me  note  that  the  floor  was  covered  with  coins  sunk  in  cement. 
A  Hottentot  would  not  have  been  guilty  of  this  sort  of  bar- 
barism.    The  coins  made  an  effect  pretty  enough,  but  the 


/Imerieai)  f/otes  277 

man  who  put  them  there  had  no  thought  to  beauty,  and, 
therefore,  he  was  a  savage. 

Then  my  cab-driver  showed  me  business  blocks,  gay  with 
signs  and  studded  with  fantastic  and  absurd  advertisements 
of  goods,  and  looking  down  the  long  street  so  adorned,  it 
was  as  though  each  vender  stood  at  his  door  howling : 

"For  the  sake  of  money,  employ  or  buy  of  me,  and  me 
only!" 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  crowd  at  a  famine-relief  distribu- 
tion? You  know  then  how  the  men  leap  into  the  air, 
stretching  out  their  arms  above  the  crowd  in  the  hope  of 
being  seen,  while  the  women  dolorously  slap  the  stomachs 
of  their  children  and  whimper.  I  had  sooner  watch  famine 
relief  than  the  white  man  engaged  in  what  he  calls  legiti- 
mate competition.  The  one  I  understand.  The  other  makes 
me  ill. 

And  the  cabman  said  that  these  things  were  the  proof  of 
progress,  and  by  that  I  knew  he  had  been  reading  his  news- 
paper, as  every  intelhgent  American  should.  The  papers  tell 
their  clientele  in  language  fitted  to  their  comprehension  that 
the  snarling  together  of  telegraph-wires,  the  heaving  up  of 
houses,  and  the  making  of  money  is  progress. 

DONE   IN  TEN   HOURS 

I  spent  ten  hours  in  that  huge  wilderness,  wandering 
through  scores  of  miles  of  these  terrible  streets  and  josthng 
some  few  hundred  thousand  of  these  terrible  people  who 
talked  paisa  hat  through  their  noses. 

The  cabman  left  me ;  but  after  a  while  I  picked  up  another 
man,  who  was  full  of  figures,  and  into  my  ears  he  poured 
them'as  occasion  required  or  the  big  blank  factories  suggested. 
Here  they  turned  out  so  many  hundred  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  such  and  such  an  article;  there  so  many  million 
other  things ;  this  house  was  worth  so  many  million  dollars ; 
that  one  so  many  million  more  or  less.  It  was  like  listening 
to  a  child  babbling  of  its  hoard  of  shells.  It  was  like  watch- 
ing a  fool  playing  with  buttons.     But  I  was  expected  to  do 


278  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

more  than  listen  or  watch.  He  demanded  that  I  should 
admire ;  and  the  utmost  that  I  could  say  was : 

**Are  these  things  so.     Then  I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

That  made  him  angry,  and  he  said  that  insular  envy  made 
me  unresponsive.  So,  you  see,  I  could  not  make  him  under- 
stand. 

About  four  and  a  half  hours  after  Adam  was  turned  out 
of  the  Garden  of  Eden  he  felt  hungry,  and  so,  bidding  Eve 
take  care  that  her  head  was  not  broken  by  the  descending 
fruit,  shinned  up  a  cocoanut-palm.  That  hurt  his  legs,  cut 
his  breast,  and  made  him  breathe  heavily,  and  Eve  was  tor- 
mented with  fear  lest  her  lord  should  miss  his  footing,  and 
so  bring  the  tragedy  of  this  world  to  an  end  ere  the  curtain 
had  fairly  risen.  Had  I  met  Adam  then,  I  should  have  been 
sorry  for  him.  To-day  I  find  eleven  hundred  thousand  of  his 
sons  just  as  far  advanced  as  their  father  in  the  art  of  getting 
food,  and  immeasurably  inferior  to  him  in  that  they  think 
that  their  palm-trees  lead  straight  to  the  skies.  Consequently, 
I  am  sorry  in  rather  more  than  a  million  different  ways. 

In  the  East  bread  comes  naturally,  even  to  the  poorest,  by 
a  little  scratching  or  the  gift  of  a  friend  not  quite  so  poor. 
In  less  favored  countries  one  is  apt  to  forget.  Then  I  went 
to  bed.     And  that  was  on  a  Saturday  night. 

CHICAGO    PREACHING 

Sunday  brought  me  the  queerest  experiences  of  all — a 
revelation  of  barbarism  complete.  I  found  a  place  that  was 
officially  described  as  a  church.  It  was  a  circus  really,  but 
that  the  worshipers  did  not  know.  There  were  flowers  all 
about  the  building,  which  was  fitted  up  with  plush  and  stained 
oak  and  much  luxury,  including  twisted  brass  candlesticks 
of  severest  Gothic  design. 

To  these  things  and  a  congregation  of  savages  entered  sud- 
denly a  wonderful  man,  completely  in  the  confidence  of  their 
God,  whom  he  treated  colloquially  and  exploited  very  much 
as  a  newspaper  reporter  would  exploit  a  foreign  potentate. 
But,  unhke  the  newspaper  reporter,   he  never  allowed  his 


/ImerieaQ  f^otes  279 

listeners  to  forget  that  he,  and  not  He,  was  the  center  of 
attraction.  With  a  voice  of  silver  and  with  imagery  borrowed 
from  the  auction-room  he  built  up  for  his  hearers  a  heaven  on 
the  lines  of  the  Palmer  House  (but  with  all  the  gilding  real 
gold,  and  all  the  plate-glass  diamond)  and  set  in  the  center  of 
it  a  loud-voiced,  argumentative,  very  shrewd  creation  that 
he  called  God.  One  sentence  at  this  point  caught  my  de- 
lighted ear.  It  was  apropos  of  some  question  of  the  Judg- 
ment, and  ran : 

"l^o!     I  tell  you  God  doesn't  do  business  that  way." 

He  was  giving  them  a  deity  whom  they  could  compre- 
hend, and  a  gold  and  jeweled  heaven  in  which  they  could 
take  a  natural  interest.  He  interlarded  his  performance  with 
the  slang  of  the  streets,  the  counter,  and  the  exchange,  and 
he  said  that  religion  ought  to  enter  into  daily  life.  Conse- 
quently, I  presume  he  introduced  it  as  daily  life — his  own 
and  the  life  of  his  friends. 

Then  I  escaped  before  the  blessing,  desiring  no  benedic- 
tion at  such  hands.  But  the  persons  who  listened  seemed  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and  I  understand  that  I  had  met  with  a 
popular  preacher. 

Later  on,  when  I  had  perused  the  sermons  of  a  gentle- 
man called  Talmage  and  some  others,  I  perceived  that  I  had 
been  listening  to  a  very  mild  specimen.  Yet  that  man,  with 
his  brutal  gold  and  silver  idols,  his  hands-in-pocket,  cigar-in- 
mouth,  and  hat-on-the-back-of-the-head  style  of  dealing  with 
the  sacred  vessels,  would  count  himself,  spiritually,  quite 
competent  to  send  a  mission  to  convert  the  Indians. 

All  that  Sunday  I  listened  to  people  who  said  that  the 
mere  fact  of  spiking  down  strips  of  iron  to  wood  and  getting 
a  steam  and  iron  thing  to  run  along  them  was  progress,  that 
the  telephone  was  progress,  and  the  network  of  wires  over- 
head was  progress.  They  repeated  their  statements  again 
and  again. 

One  of  them  took  me  to  their  City  Hall  and  Board  of 
Trade  works  and  pointed  it  out  with  pride.  It  was  very 
ugly,  but  very  big,  and  the  streets  in  front  of  it  were  narrow 


^80  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplip^ 

and  unclean.  "When  I  saw  the  faces  of  the  men  who  did 
business  in  that  building,  I  felt  that  there  had  been  a  mistake 
in  their  billeting. 

WRITING    DOWN    TO    HIS    AUDIENCE 

By  the  way,  'tis  a  consolation  to  feel  that  I  am  not  writing 
to  an  English  audience.  Then  should  I  have  to  fall  into 
feigned  ecstasies  over  the  marvelous  progress  of  Chicago 
since  the  days  of  the  great  fire,  to  allude  casually  to  the  raising 
of  the  entire  city  so  many  feet  above  the  level  of  the  lake 
which  it  faces,  and  generally  to  grovel  before  the  golden  calf. 
But  you,  who  are  desperately  poor,  and  therefore  by  these 
standards  of  no  account,  know  things,  will  understand  when 
I  write  that  they  have  managed  to  get  a  million  of  men  to- 
gether on  flat  land,  and  that  the  bulk  of  these  men  together 
appear  to  be  lower  than  Mahajans  and  not  so  companionable 
as  a  Punjabi  Jat  after  harvest. 

But  I  don't  think  it  was  the  blind  hurry  of  the  people, 
their  argot,  and  their  grand  ignorance  of  things  beyond  their 
immediate  interests,  that  displeased  me  so  much  as  a  study  of 
the  daily  papers  of  Chicago. 

Imprimis,  there  was  some  sort  of  a  dispute  between  IsTew 
York  and  Chicago  as  to  which  town  should  give  an  exhibi- 
tion of  products  to  be  hereafter  holden,  and  through  the 
medium  of  their  more  dignified  journals  the  two  cities  were 
ya-hooing  and  hi-yi-ing  at  each  other  like  opposition  news- 
boys. They  called  it  humor,  but  it  sounded  like  somethmg 
quite  different. 

That  was  only  the  first  trouble.  The  second  lay  in  the 
tone  of  the  productions.  Leading  articles  which  include 
gems  such  as  "Back  of  such  and  such  a  place,"  or,  "We 
noticed,  Tuesday,  such  an  event,"  or,  "don't"  for  "does 
not,"  are  things  to  be  accepted  with  thankfulness.  All  that 
made  me  want  to  cry  was  that  in  these  papers  were  faith- 
fully reproduced  all  the  war-cries  and  "back  talk"  of  the 
Palmer  House  bar,  the  slang  of  the  barber-shops,  the  mental 
elevation  and  integrity  of  the  Pullman  car  porter,  the  dig- 


/ImeriGai?  f/otes  281 

nity  of  the  dime  museum,  and  tlie  accuracy  of  the  excited 
fish- wife.  I  am  sternly  forbidden  to  beheve  that  the  paper 
educates  the  pubhc.  Then  I  am  compelled  to  believe  that 
the  public  educate  the  paper,  yet  suicides  on  the  press  are 
rare. 

STRUCK    A    PROTECTIONIST 

Just  when  the  sense  of  unreality  and  oppression  was 
strongest  upon  me,  and  when  I  most  wanted  help,  a  man 
sat  at  my  side  and  began  to  talk  what  he  called  politics. 

I  had  chanced  to  pay  about  six  shillings  for  a  travelings 
cap  worth  eighteen  pence,  and  he  made  of  the  fact  a  text  for 
a  sermon.  He  said  that  this  was  a  rich  country,  and  that 
the  people  liked  to  pay  two  hundred  per  cent  on  the  value  of 
a  thing.  They  could  afford  it.  He  said  that  the  govern- 
ment imposed  a  protective  duty  of  from  ten  to  seventy  per 
cent  on  foreign-made  articles,  and  that  the  American  manu- 
facturer consequently  could  sell  his  goods  for  a  healthy  sum. 
Thus  an  imported  hat  would,  with  duty,  cost  two  guineas. 
The  American  manufacturer  would  make  a  hat  for  seventeen 
shillings,  and  sell  it  for  one  pound  fifteen.  In  these  things, 
he  said,  lay  the  greatness  of  America  and  the  effeteness  of 
England.  Competition  between  factory  and  factory  kept 
the  prices  down  to  decent  limits,  but  I  was  never  to  forget 
that  this  people  were  a  rich  people,  not  like  the  pauper  Con* 
tinentals,  and  that  they  enjoyed  paying  duties. 

To  my  weak  uitellect  this  seemed  rather  hke  juggling 
with  counters.  Everything  that  I  have  yet  purchased  costs 
about  twice  as  much  as  it  would  in  England,  and  when 
native  made  is  of  inferior  quahty. 

AN    OBJECT-LESSON    IN    TRUSTS 

Moreover,  since  these  lines  were  first  thought  of,  I  have 
visited  a  gentleman  who  owned  a  factory  which  used  to  pro- 
duce things.  He  owned  the  factory  still.  Not  a  man  was 
in  it,  but  he  was  drawing  a  handsome  income  from  a  syndi- 
cate of  firms  for  keeping  it  closed,  in  order  that  it  might  not 
produce  things.     This  man  said  that  if  protection  were  aban- 


282  U/orKs  of  l^udyard  \{ipViT)(^ 

doned  a  tide  of  pauper  labor  would  flood  the  country,  and  as 
I  looked  at  his  factory  I  thought  how  entirely  better  it  was 
to  have  no  labor  of  any  kind  whatever  rather  than  face  so 
horrible  a  future. 

Meantime,  do  you  remember  that  this  peculiar  country 
enjoys  paying  money  for  value  not  received?  I  am  an  alien, 
and  for  the  life  of  me  cannot  see  why  six  shillings  should  be 
paid  for  eighteen-penny  caps,  or  eight  shillings  for  haK-crown 
cigar-cases.  When  the  country  fills  up  to  a  decently  popu- 
lated level  a  few  million  people  who  are  not  aliens  will  be 
smitten  with  the  same  sort  of  blindness. 

But  my  friend's  assertion  somehow  thoroughly  suited  the 
grotesque  ferocity  of  Chicago. 

CHICAGO    VERSUS    INDIA 

See  now  and  judge!  In  the  village  of  Isser  Jang,  on  the 
road  to  Montgomery,  there  be  four  Changar  women  who 
winnow  corn — some  seventy  bushels  a  year.  Beyond  their 
hut  lives  Purun  Dass,  the  money-lender,  who  on  good  secur- 
ity lends  as  much  as  five  thousand  rupees  in  a  year.  Jowala 
Singh,  the  smith,  mends  the  village  plows — some  thirty, 
broken  at  the  share,  in  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days; 
and  Hukm  Chund,  who  is  letter-writer  and  head  of  the  little 
club  under  the  travelers'  tree,  generally  keeps  the  village 
posted  in  such  gossip  as  the  barber  and  the  midwife  have  not 
yet  made  public  property. 

Chicago  husks  and  winnows  her  wheat  by  the  million 
bushels,  a  hundred  banks  lend  hundreds  of  millions  of  dol- 
lars in  the  year,  and  scores  of  factories  turn  out  plow-gear 
and  machinery  by  steam.  Scores  of  daily  papers  do  work 
which  Hukm  Chund  and  the  barber  and  the  midwife  per- 
form, with  due  regard  for  public  opinion,  in  the  village  of 
Isser  Jang.  So  far  as  manufactures  go,  the  difference  be- 
tween Chicago  on  the  lake  and  Isser  Jang  on  the  Mont- 
gomery road  is  one  of  degree  only,  and  not  of  kind.  As  far 
as  the  understanding  of  the  uses  of  life  goes  Isser  Jang,  for 
all  its  seasonal  cholera,  has  the  advantage  over  Chicago. 


/imeriGar)  jNfotes  283 

Jowala  Singh  knows  and  takes  care  to  avoid  the  three  or 
four  ghoul-haunted  fields  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village ;  but 
he  is  not  urged  by  millions  of  devils  to  run  about  all  day  in 
the  sun  and  swear  that  his  plowshares  are  the  best  in  the 
Punjab ;  nor  does  Purun  Dass  fly  forth  in  an  ekka  more  than 
once  or  twice  a  year,  and  he  knows,  on  a  pinch,  how  to  use 
the  railway  and  the  telegraph  as  well  as  any  son  of  Israel  in 
Chicago.     But  this  is  absurd. 

The  East  is  not  the  West,  and  these  men  must  continue 
to  deal  with  the  machinery  of  life  and  to  call  it  progress. 
Their  very  preachers  dare  not  rebuke  them.  They  gloss 
over  the  hunting  for  money  and  the  thrice-sharpened  bitter- 
ness of  Adam's  curse,  by  saying  that  such  things  dower  a 
man  with  a  larger  range  of  thoughts  and  higher  aspirations. 
They  do  not  say,  "Free  yourselves  from  your  own  slavery," 
but  rather,  "If  you  can  possibly  manage  it,  do  not  set  quite 
so  much  store  on  the  things  of  this  world." 

And  they  do  not  know  what  the  things  of  this  world  are ! 

FE,    FI,    FO,    fum! 

I  went  off  to  see  cattle  killed,  by  way  of  clearing  my 
head,  which,  as  you  will  perceive,  was  getting  muddled. 
They  say  every  Englishman  goes  to  the  Chicago  stock- 
yards. You  shall  find  them  about  six  miles  from  the  city ; 
and  once  having  seen  them,  you  will  never  forget  the  sight. 

As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  stretches  a  township  of  cat= 
tie-pens,  cunningly  divided  into  blocks,  so  that  the  animals 
of  any  pen  can  be  speedily  driven  out  close  to  an  inclined 
timber  path  which  leads  to  an  elevated  covered  way  strad- 
dhng  high  above  the  pens.  These  viaducts  are  two-storied. 
On  the  upper  story  tramp  the  doomed  cattle,  stolidly  for  the 
most  part.  On  the  lower,  with  a  scuffling  of  sharp  hoofs 
and  multitudinous  yells,  run  the  pigs,  the  same  end  being 
appointed  for  each.  Thus  you  will  see  the  gangs  of  cattle 
waiting  their  turn — as  they  wait  sometimes  for  days;  and 
they  need  not  be  distressed  by  the  sight  of  their  fellows  run- 
ning about  in  the  fear  of  death.     All  they  know  is  that  a 


284  U/orl^s  of  P^udyard  l^iplip^ 

man  on  horseback  causes  their  next-door  neighbors  to  move 
by  means  of  a  whip.  Certain  bars  and  fences  are  unshipped, 
and  behold !  that  crowd  have  gone  up  the  mouth  of  a  sloping 
tunnel  and  return  no  more. 

It  is  different  with  the  pigs.  They  shriek  back  the  news 
of  the  exodus  to  their  friends,  and  a  hundred  pens  skirl 
responsive. 

It  was  to  the  pigs  I  first  addressed  myself.  Selecting  a 
viaduct  which  was  full  of  them,  as  I  could  hear,  though  I 
could  not  see,  I  marked  a  somber  building  whereto  it  ran, 
and  went  there,  not  unalarmed  by  stray  cattle  who  had  man- 
aged to  escape  from  their  proper  quarters.  A  pleasant  smell 
of  brine  warned  me  of  what  was  coming.  I  entered  the  fac- 
tory and  found  it  full  of  pork  in  barrels,  and  on  another  story 
more  pork  unbarreled,  and  in  a  huge  room  the  halves  of 
swine,  for  whose  behoof  great  lumps  of  ice  were  being  pitched 
in  at  the  window.  That  room  was  the  mortuary  chamber 
where  the  pigs  lay  for  a  little  while  in  state  ere  they  began 
their  progress  through  such  passages  as  kings  may  sometimes 
travel. 

HOW    PORK    IS    MADE 

Turning  a  corner,  and  not  noting  an  overhead  arrange- 
ment of  greased  rail,  wheel,  and  pulley,  I  ran  into  the  arms 
of  four  eviscerated  carcasses,  all  pure  white  and  of  a  human 
aspect,  pushed  by  a  man  clad  in  vehement  red.  When  I 
leaped  aside  the  floor  was  slippery  under  me.  Also  there 
was  a  flavor  of  farmyard  in  my  nostrils  and  the  shouting  of 
a  multitude  in  my  ears.  But  there  was  no  joy  in  that  shout- 
ing. Twelve  men  stood  in  two  lines  six  a  side.  Between 
them  and  overhead  ran  the  railway  of  death  that  had  nearly 
shunted  me  through  the  "window.  Each  man  carried  a  knife, 
the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  were  cut  off  at  the  elbows,  and  from 
bosom  to  heel  he  was  blood-red. 

Beyond  this  perspective  was  a  column  of  steam,  and  be- 
yond that  was  where  I  worked  my  awestruck  way,  unwilling 
to  touch  beam  or  wall.  The  atmosphere  was  stifling  as  a 
night  in  the  rains  by  reason  of  the  steam  and  the  crowd.     I 


/ImeriGai)  f/ofces  285 

climbed  to  the  beginning  of  things  and,  perched  upon  a  nar- 
row beam,  overlooked  very  nearly  all  the  pigs  ever  bred  in 
Wisconsin.  They  had  just  been  shot  out  of  the  mouth  of 
the  viaduct  and  huddled  together  in  a  large  pen.  Thence 
they  were  flicked  persuasively,  a  few  at  a  time,  into  a  smaller 
chamber,  and  there  a  man  fixed  tackle  on  their  hinder  legs, 
so  that  they  rose  in  the  air,  suspended  from  the  railway  of 
death. 

Oh !  it  was  then  they  shrieked  and  called  on  their  mothers, 
and  made  promises  of  amendment,  till  the  tackle-man  punted 
them  in  their  backs  and  they  slid  head  down  into  a  brick- 
floored  passage,  very  like  a  big  kitchen  sink,  that  was  blood- 
red.  There  awaited  them  a  red  man  with  a  knife  which  he 
passed  jauntily  through  their  throats,  and  -the  full- voiced 
shriek  became  a  splutter,  and  then  a  fall  as  of  heavy  tropical 
rain,  and  the  red  man,  who  was  backed  against  the  passage 
wall,  you  will  understand,  stood  clear  of  the  wildly  kicking 
hoofs  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  not  from  any  feel- 
ing of  compassion,  but  because  the  spurted  blood  was  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  had  barely  time  to  stick  the  next  arrival.  Then 
that  first  stuck  swine  dropped,  still  kicking,  into  a  great  vat 
of  boiling  water,  and  spoke  no  more  words,  but  wallowed  in 
obedience  to  some  unseen  machinery,  and  presently  came 
forth  at  the  lower  end  of  the  vat,  and  was  heaved  on  the 
blades  of  a  blunt  paddle-wheel,  things  which  said  "Hough, 
hough,  hough!"  and  skelped  all  the  hair  off  him,  except 
what  little  a  couple  of  men  with  knives  could  remove. 

Then  he  was  again  hitched  by  the  heels  to  that  said  rail- 
way, and  passed  down  the  line  of  the  twelve  men,  each  man 
with  a  knife — losing  with  each  man  a  certain  amount  of  his 
individuality,  which  was  taken  away  in  a  wheelbarrow,  and 
when  he  reached  the  last  man  he  was  very  beautiful  to  be- 
hold, but  excessively  unstuffed  and  limp.  Preponderance  of 
individuality  was  ever  a  bar  to  foreign  travel.  That  pig 
could  have  been  in  case  to  visit  you  in  India  had  he  not 
parted  with  some  of  his  most  cherished  notions. 

The  dissecting  part  impressed  me  not  so  much  as  the  slay- 


286  U/orKs  of  r^udyard  l^iplip^ 

ing.  They  were  so  excessively  alive,  these  pigs.  And  then, 
they  were  so  excessively  dead,  and  the  man  in  the  dripping, 
clammy,  hot  passage  did  not  seem  to  care,  and  ere  the  blood 
of  such  a  one  had  ceased  to  foam  on  the  floor  such  another 
and  four  friends  with  him  had  shrieked  and  die.  But  a  pig 
is  only  the  unclean  animal — the  forbidden  of  the  prophet. 


UNCLE   SAM'S   ARMY   UNDER    KIPLING 

GUNS 


MILITARY  CRITICISM  AND  ADVICE  FROM  THE  ANGLO-INDIAN 
EDITOR  —  bird's-eye  VIEW  OF  MORMONDOM  —  TRICK- 
ERY'S ASCENDENCY  OVER  IMPORTED  IGNORANCE  WHICH 
ONCE  CHALLENGED  THE  NATION'S  SOVEREIGNTY 

I  SHOULD  very  much  like  to  deliver  a  dissertation  on  the 
American  army  and  the  possibilities  of  its  extension.  You 
see,  it  is  such  a  beautiful  little  army,  and  the  dear  people 
don't  quite  understand  what  to  do  with  it.  The  theory  is 
that  it  is  an  instructional  nucleus  round  which  the  militia  of 
the  country  will  rally  and  from  which  they  will  get  a  stiffen- 
ing in  time  of  danger.  Yet  other  people  consider  that  the 
army  should  be  built,  Hke  a  pair  of  lazy  tongs — on  the  prin- 
ciple of  elasticity  and  extension — so  that  in  time  of  need  it 
may  fill  up  its  skeleton  battalions  and  empty  saddle  troops. 
This  is  real  wisdom,  because  the  American  army,  as  at  pres- 
ent constituted,  is  made  up  of — 

Twenty-five  regiments  infantry,  ten  companies  each. 

Ten  regiments  cavalry,  twelve  companies  each.     - 

Five  regiments  artillery,  twelve  companies  each. 

Now  there  is  a  notion  in  the  air  to  reorganize  the  service 
on  these  lines: 

Eighteen  regiments  infantry  at  four  battalions,  four 
companies  each;   third  battalion,  skeleton;  fourth  on  paper. 


/Imericap  flotes  287 

Eight  regiments  cavalry  at  four  battalions,  four  troops 
each;  third  battalion,  skeleton;  fourth  on  paper. 

Five  regiments  artillery  at  four  battalions,  four  companies 
each ;  third  battalion,  skeleton ;  fourth  on  paper. 

A    CONCERTINA    ARMY 

Observe  the  beauty  of  this  business.  The  third  battaHon 
will  have  its  ofiQcers,  but  no  men ;  the  fourth  will  probably 
have  a  rendezvous  and  some  equipment. 

It  is  not  contemplated  to  give  it  anything  more  definite  at 
present.  Assuming  the  regiments  to  be  made  up  to  full  com- 
plement, we  get  an  army  of  fifty  thousand  men,  which  after 
the  need  passes  away  must  be  cut  down  fifty  per  cent,  to  the 
huge  delight  of  the  officers. 

The  military  needs  of  the  States  be  three :  (a)  Frontier 
warfare,  an  employment  well  within  the  grip  of  the  present 
army  of  twenty-five  thousand,  and  in  the  nature  of  things 
growing  less  arduous  year  by  year;  (b)  internal  riots  and 
commotions  which  rise  up  hke  a  dust  devil,  whirl  furiously, 
and  die  out  long  before  the  authorities  at  Washington  could 
begin  to  fill  up  even  the  third  skeleton  battalions,  much  less 
hunt  about  for  material  for  the  fourth;  (c)  civil  war,  in 
which,  as  the  case  in  the  affair  of  the  North  and  South,  the 
regular  army  would  be  swamped  in  the  mass  of  mihtia  and 
armed  volunteers  that  would  turn  the  land  into  a  hell. 

Yet  the  authorities  persist  in  regarding  an  external  war 
as  a  thing  to  be  seriously  considered. 

The  Power  that  would  disembark  troops  on  American  soil 
would  be  capable  of  heaving  a  shovelful  of  mud  into  the 
Atlantic  in  the  hope  of  filling  it  up.  Consequently  the  au- 
thorities are  fascinated  with  the  idea  of  the  sliding  scale  or 
concertina  army.  This  is  an  hereditary  instinct,  for  you 
know  that  when  we  English  ha^ve  got  together  two  com- 
panies, one  machine  gun,  a  sick  bullock,  forty  generals  and 
a  mass  of  w.  o.  forms,  we  say  we  possess  "an  army  corps 
capable  of  indefinite  extension." 

The  American  army  is  a  beautiful  little  army.     Some 


288  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  \{ipUT)<^ 

day,  when  all  the  Indians  are  happily  dead  or  drunk,  it 
ought  to  make  the  finest  scientific  and  survey  corps  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen ;  it  does  excellent  work  now,  but  there  is 
this  defect  in  its  nature :  It  is  ofiicered,  as  you  know,  from 
West  Point. 

WEST    POINT    LEAVENING 

The  mischief  of  it  is  that  "West  Point  seems  to  be  created 
for  the  purpose  of  spreading  a  general  knowledge  of  military 
matters  among  the  people.  A  boy  goes  up  to  that  institution, 
gets  his  pass,  and  returns  to  civil  life,  so  they  tell  me,  with  a 
dangerous  knowledge  that  he  is  a  suckling  Von  Moltke  and 
may  apply  his  learning  when  occasion  offers.  Given  trouble, 
that  man  will  be  a  nuisance,  because  he  is  a  hideously  versa- 
tile American,  to  begin  with,  as  cocksure  of  himself  as  a 
man  can  be,  and  with  all  the  racial  disregard  for  human  life 
to  back  him,  through  any  demi-semi-professional  generalship. 

In  a  country  where,  as  the  records  of  the  daily  papers 
show,  men  eagaged  in  a  conflict  with  police  or  jails  are  all  too 
ready  to  adopt  a  military  formation  and  get  heavily  shot  in 
a  sort  of  cheap,  half-instructed  warfare,  instead  of  being 
decently  scared  by  the  appearance  of  the  mihtary,  this  sort  of 
arrangement  does  not  seem  wise. 

SOVEREIGN    STATE    LAWLESSNESS 

The  bond  between  the  States  is  of  an  amazing  tenuity. 
So  long  as  they  do  not  absolutely  march  into  the  District  of 
Columbia,  sit  on  the  Washington  statues,  and  invent  a  flag 
of  their  own,  they  can  legislate,  lynch,  hunt  negroes  through 
swamps,  divorce,  railroad  and  rampage  as  much  as  ever  they 
choose.  They  do  not  need  knowledge  of  their  own  military 
strength  to  back  their  genial  lawlessness. 

That  regular  army,  which  is  a  dear  little  arm}^,  should  be 
kept  to  itself,  blooded  on  detachment  duty,  turned  into  the 
paths  of  science,  and  now  and  again  assembled  at  feasts  of 
Free  Masons,  and  so  forth. 

It  is  too  tiny  to  be  a  political  power.  The  immortal  wreck 
of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  is  a  political  power  of  the 


/imerieap  f'otes  289 

largest  and  most  unblushing  description.  It  ought  not  to 
help  to  lay  the  foundations  of  an  amateur  military  power 
that  is  blind  and  irresponsible. 

SALT  LAKE   CITY 

By  great  good  luck  the  eYil-minded  train,  already  delayed 
twelve  hours  by  a  burned  bridge,  brought  me  to  the  city  on 
a  Saturday  by  way  of  that  valley  which  the  Mormons,  over 
their  efforts,  had  caused  to  blossom  like  the  rose.  Twelve 
hours  previously  I  had  entered  into  a  new  world  where,  in 
conversation,  every  one  was  either  a  Mormon  or  a  Gentile. 
It  is  not  seemly  for  a  free  and  independent  citizen  to  dub 
himself  a  Gentile,  but  the  Mayor  of  Ogden — which  is  the 
Gentile  city  of  the  valley — told  me  that  there  must  be  some 
distinction  between  the  two  flocks. 

Long  before  the  fruit  orchards  of  Logan  or  the  shining 
levels  of  the  Salt  Lake  had  been  reached,  that  mayor — him- 
self a  Gentile,  and  one  renowned  for  his  dealings  with  the 
Mormons — told  me  that  the  great  question  of  the  existence  of 
the  power  within  the  power  was  being  gradually  solved  by 
the  ballot  and  by  education. 

All  the  beauty  of  the  valley  could  not  make  me  forget  it. 
And  the  valley  is  very  fair.  Bench  after  bench  of  land,  flat 
as  a  table  against  the  flanks  of  the  ringing  hills,  marks  where 
the  Salt  Lake  rested  for  a  while  in  its  collapse  from  an  inland 
*sea  to  a  lake  fifty  miles  long  and  thirty  broad. 

THE    CREED    OF    MORMON 

There  are  the  makings  of  a  very  fine  creed  about  Mor- 
monism.  To  begin  with,  the  Church  is  rather  more  absolute 
than  that  of  Rome.  Drop  the  polygamy  plank  in  the  plat- 
form, but  on  the  other  hand  deal  lightly  with  certain  forms 
of  excess.  Keep  the  quahty  of  the  recruit  down  to  the  low 
mental  level,  and  see  that  the  best  of  all  the  agricultural 
science  available  is  in  the  hands  of  the  elders,  and  there  you 
have  a  first-class  engine  for  pioneer  work.  The  tawdry 
mysticism  and  the  borrowing  from  Freemasonry  serve  the 
Vol.  3.  13 


390  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplip^ 

low  caste  Swede  and  Dane,  the  Welshman  and  the  Cornish 
cotter  just  as  well  as  a  highly  organized  heaven. 

Then  I  went  about  the  streets  and  peeped  into  people's 
front  windows,  and  the  decorations  upon  the  tables  were 
after  the  manner  of  the  year  1850.  Main  Street  was  full  of 
country  folk  from  the  desert,  come  in  to  trade  with  the  Zion 
Mercantile  Co-operative  Institute.  The  Church,  I  fancy, 
looks  after  the  finances  of  this  thing,  and  it  consequently 
pays  good  dividends. 

The  faces  of  the  women  were  not  lovely.  Indeed,  but  for 
the  certainty  that  ugly  persons  are  just  as  irrational  in  the 
matter  of  undivided  love  as  the  beautiful,  it  seems  that 
polygamy  was  a  blessed  institution  for  the  women,  and  that 
only  the  dread  threats  of  the  spiritual  power  could  drive  the 
hulking  board-faced  men  into  it.  The  women  wore  hideous 
garments,  and  the  men  appeared  to  be  tied  up  with  strings. 

They  would  market  all  that  afternoon,  and  on  Sunday  go 
to  the  praying-place.  I  tried  to  talk  to  a  few  of  them,  but 
they  spoke  strange  tongues  and  stared  and  behaved  like  cows. 
Yet  one  woman,  and  not  an  altogether  ugly  one,  confided  to 
me  that  she  hated  the  idea  of  Salt  Lake  City  being  turned 
into  a  show-place  for  the  amusement  of  the  Gentiles. 

"If  we  'ave  our  own  institutions  that  ain't  no  reason  why 
people  should  come  'ere  and  stare  at  us,  his  it?" 

The  dropped  "h"  betrayed  her. 

"And  when  did  you  leave  England?"  I  said. 

' '  Summer  of  ' 84.  I  am  Dorset, ' '  she  said.  * '  The  Mormon 
agents  was  very  good  to  us,  and  we  was  very  poor.  "Now 
we're  better  off — my  father  an'  mother  an'  me." 

"Then  you  like  the  State?" 

She  misunderstood  at  first. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  livin'  in  the  state  of  polygamy.  Not  me, 
yet.  I  ain't  married.  I  like  where  I  am.  I've  got  things 
o'  my  own— and  some  land." 

"But  I  suppose  you  will — " 

"Not  me.  I  ain't  like  them  Swedes  an'  Danes.  I  ain't 
got  nothin'  to  say  for  or  against  polygamy.     It's  the  elders' 


/Imerieai)  J^otes  291 

business,  an'  between  you  an'  me,  I  don't  think  it's  going  on 
much  longer.  You'll  'ear  them  in  the  'ouse  to-morrer  talkin' 
as  if  it  was  spreadin'  all  over  America.  The  Swedes  they 
think  it  his.     I  know  it  hisn't." 

**But  you've  got  your  land  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes;  we've  got  our  land,  an'  we  never  say  aught 
against  polygamy,  o'  course — father,  an'  mother,  an'  me." 

AT    THE    LAST    GASP 

On  a  table-land  overlooking  all  the  city  stands  the  United 
States  garrison  of  infantry  and  artillery.  The  State  of  Utah 
can  do  nearly  anything  it  pleases  until  that  much-to-be  de- 
sired hour  when  the  Gentile  vote  shall  quietly  swamp  out 
Mormonism,  but  the  garrison  are  kept  there  in  case  of  ac= 
cidents.  The  big,  shark-mouthed,  pig-eared,  heavy-boned 
farmers  sometimes  take  to  their  creed  with  wildest  fanaticism, 
and  in  past  years  have  made  life  excessively  unpleasant  for 
the  Gentile  when  he  was  few  in  the  land.  But  to-day,  so 
far  from  killing  openl}^  or  secretly  or  burning  Gentile  farms, 
it  is  all  the  Mormon  dare  do  to  feebly  try  to  boycott  the 
interloper.  His  journals  preach  defiance  to  the  United  States 
Government,  and  in  the  Tabernacle  on  a  Sunday  the  preachers 
follow  suit. 

When  I  went  there  the  place  was  full  of  people  who  would 
have  been  much  better  for  a  washing.  A  man  rose  up  and 
told  them  that  they  were  the  chosen  of  God,  the  elect  of 
Israel ;  that  they  were  to  obey  their  priests,  and  that  there 
was  a  good  time  coming.  I  fancy  that  they  had  heard  all 
this  before  so  many  times  it  produced  no  impression  whatever ; 
even  as  the  sublimest  mysteries  of  another  faith  lose  salt 
through  constant  iteration.  They  breathed  heavily  through 
their  noses  and  stared  straight  in  front  of  them — impassive 
as  flat  fish. 


J392  Worlds  of  F^udyard  I^iplipi^ 


KIPLING'S    VIEW   OF    OUR   DEFENSELESS 

COASTS 


NEW  YOEK  ABJECTLY  AT  THE  MERCY,  OF  TWO  OR  THREE 
CHINESE  IRONCLADS— INLAND  PORTS  AND  CANADIAN 
CRAFT — HOW  PROVINCIAL  AND  FRONTIER  AMERICAN 
MANNERS    STRIKE    ENGLISH   INSULARITY 

Just  suppose  that  America  were  twenty  days  distant 
from  England.  Then  a  man  could  study  its  customs  with 
undivided  soul ;  but  being  so  very  near  next  door  he  goes 
about  the  land  with  one  eye  on  the  smoke  of  the  flesh-pots  of 
the  old  country  across  the  seas,  while  with  the  other  he  squints 
biliously  and  prejudicially  at  the  alien. 

I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  my  sacred  heart  and  affirm  that 
up  to  to-day  I  have  never  taken  three  consecutive  trips  by 
rail  without  being  delayed  by  an  accident.  That  it  was  an 
accident  to  another  train  makes  no  difference.  My  own  turn 
may  come  next. 

A  few  miles  from  peaceful,  pleasure-loving  Lakewood 
they  had  managed  to  upset  an  express  goods  train  to  the 
detriment  of  the  flimsy  permanent  way;  and  thus  the  train 
which  should  have  left  at  three  departed  at  seven  in  the  even- 
ing. I  was  not  angry.  I  was  scarcely  even  interested. 
When  an  American  train  starts  on  time  I  begin  to  anticipate 
disaster — a  visitation  for  such  good  luck,  you  understand. 

Buffalo  is  a  large  village  of  a  quarter  of  a  milhon  inhabit- 
ants, situated  on  the  sea-shore,  which  is  falsely  called  Lake 
Erie.  It  is  a  peaceful  place,  and  more  like  an  English 
county  town  than  most  of  its  friends. 

Once  clear  of  the  main  business  streets  you  launch  upon 
miles  and  miles  of  asphalted  roads  running  between  cottages  ,| 
and  cut-stone  residences  of  those  who  have  money  and  peace. 


fimerieaT)  JVotss  293 

All  the  Eastern  cities  own  this  fringe  of  elegance,  but  except 
in  Chicago  nowhere  is  the  fringe  deeper  or  more  heavily 
widened  than  in  Buffalo. 

WHY    THE    AMERICAN    WON'T    VOTE 

The  American  will  go  to  a  bad  place  because  he  cannot 
speak  English  and  is  proud  of  it ;  but  he  knows  how  to  make 
a  home  for  himself  and  his  mate ;  knows  how  to  keep  the 
grass  green  in  front  of  his  veranda,  and  how  to  fullest  use 
the  mechanism  of  Hfe — hot  water,  gas,  good  bell-ropes,  tele- 
phones, etc.  His  shops  sell  him  delightful  household  fitments 
at  very  moderate  rates,  and  he  is  encompassed  with  all  man- 
ner of  labor-saving  appliances.  This  does  not  prevent  his 
wife  and  his  daughter  working  themselves  to  death  over 
household  drudgery ;  but  the  intention  is  good. 

When  you  have  seen  the  outsides  of  a  few  hundred  thou- 
sand of  these  homes  and  the  insides  of  a  few  score,  you  begin 
to  understand  why  the  American  (the  respectable  one)  does 
not  take  a  deep  interest  in  what  they  call  "politics,"  and 
why  he  is  so  vaguely  and  generally  proud  of  the  country  that 
enables  him  to  be  so  comfortable.  How  can  the  owner  of  a 
dainty  chalet,  with  smoked-oak  furniture,  imitation  Venetian 
tapestry  curtains,  hot  and  cold  water  laid  on,  a  bed  of  gera- 
niums and  hollyhocks,  a  baby  crawling  down  the  veranda, 
and  a  self-acting  twirly-whirly  hose  gently  hissing  over  the 
grass  in  the  balmy  dusk  of  an  August  evening— how  can 
such  a  man  despair  of  the  Republic  or  descend  into  the  streets 
on  voting  days  and  mix  cheerfully  with  "the  boys"? 

No,  it  is  the  stranger — the  homeless  jackal  of  a  stranger 
— ^whose  interest  in  the  country  is  Hmited  to  his  hotel-bill 
and  a  railway-ticket,  that  can  run  from  Dan  to  Beersheba, 
crying : 

"All  is  barren!" 

Every  good  American  wants  a  home — a  pretty  house  and 
a  little  piece  of  land  of  his  very  own ;  and  every  other  good 
American  seems  to  get  it. 


294  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 


AMERICA'S    YOUTHFUL    MARRIAGES 

It  was  when  my  gigantic  intellect  was  grappling  with 
this  question  that  I  confirmed  a  discovery  half  made  in  the 
West.  The  natives  of  most  classes  marry  young — absurdly 
young.  One  of  my  informants — not  the  twenty-two-year- 
old  husband  I  met  on  Lake  Chautauqua — said  that  from 
twenty  to  twenty-four  was  about  the  usual  time  for  this  folly. 
And  when  I  asked  whether  the  practice  was  confined  to  the 
constitutionally  improvident  classes,  he  said  "No"  very 
quickly.  He  said  it  was  a  general  custom,  and  nobody  saw 
anything  wrong  with  it. 

"I  guess,  perhaps,  very  early  marriage  may  account  for 
a  good  deal  of  the  divorce,"  said  he,  reflectively. 

Whereat  I  was  silent.  Their  marriages  and  their  divorces 
only  concern  these  people ;  and  neither  I  traveling,  nor  you, 
who  may  come  after,  have  any  right  to  make  rude  remarks 
about  them.  Only — only  coming  from  a  land  where  a  man 
begins  to  lightly  turn  to  thoughts  of  love  not  before  he  is 
thirty,  I  own  that  playing  at  housekeeping  before  that  age 
rather  surprised  me.  Out  in  the  West,  though,  they  marry, 
boys  and  girls,  from  sixteen  upward,  and  I  have  met  more 
than  one  bride  of  fifteen — husband  aged  twenty. 

"When  man  and  woman  are  agreed,  what  can  the  Kazi 
do?" 

From  those  peaceful  homes,  and  the  envy  they  inspire 
(two  trunks  and  a  walking-stick  and  a  bit  of  pine^  forest  in 
British  Columbia  are  not  satisfactory,  any  way  you  look  at 
them),  I  turned  me  to  the  lake  front  of  Buffalo,  where  the 
steamers  bellow  to  the  grain  elevators  and  the  locomotives 
yell  to  the  coal-shutes,  and  the  canal  barges  jostle  the  lum- 
ber-raft half  a  mile  long  as  it  snakes  across  the  water  in  tow 
of  a  launch,  and  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea  alike  are  thick  with 
smoke. 

In  the  old  days  before  the  railway  ran  into  the  city  all  the 
-business  quarters  fringed  the  lake-shore  where  the  traffic  was 


/ImeriGai?  flotes  295 

largest.  To-day  the  business  quarters  have  gone  up-town  to 
meet  the  railroad;  the  lake  traffic  still  exists,  but  you  shall 
find  a  narrow  belt  of  red-brick  desolation,  broken  windows, 
gap-toothed  doors,  and  streets  where  the  grass  grows  between 
the  crowded  wharfs  and  the  bustling  city.  To  the  lake  front 
conies  wheat  from  Chicago,  lumber,  coal,  and  ore,  and  a 
large  trade  in  cheap  excursionists. 

buffalo's  wheat  elevators 

It  was  my  felicity  to  catch  a  grain  steamer  and  an  eleva- 
tor emptying  that  same  steamer.  The  steamer  might  have 
been  two  thousand  tons  burden.  She  was  laden  with  wheat 
in  bulk ;  from  stem  to  stern,  thirteen  feet  deep,  lay  the  clean, 
red  wheat.  There  was  no  twenty-five  per  cent  dirt  admixt- 
ure about  it  at  all.  It  was  wheat,  fit  for  the  grindstones 
as  it  lay.  They  nianeuvered  the  fore-hatch  of  that  steamer 
directly  under  an  elevator— a  house  of  red  tin  a  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  high.  Then  they  let  down  into  that  fore-hatch  a 
trunk  as  if  it  had  been  the  trunk  of  an  elephant,  but  stiff  be- 
cause it  was  a  pipe  of  iron-clamped  wood.  And  the  trunk 
had  a  steel-shod  nose  to  it,  and  contained  an  endless  chain  of 
steel  buckets. 

Then  the  captain  swore,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
a  gruff  voice  answered  him  from  the  place  he  swore  at,  and 
certain  machinery,  also  in  the  firmament,  began  to  clack, 
and  the  glittering,  steel-shod  nose  of  that  trunk  burrowed 
into  the  wheat  and  the  wheat  quivered  and  sunk  upon  the 
instant  as  water  sinks  when  the  siphon  sucks,  because  the 
steel  buckets  within  the  trunk  were  flying  upon  their  endless 
round,  carrying  away  each  its  appointed  morsel  of  wheat. 

The  elevator  was  a  Persian  well  wheel — a  wheel  squashed 
out  thin  and  cased  in  a  pipe,  a  wheel  driven  not  by  bullocks, 
but  by  much  horse-power,  licking  up  the  grain  at  the  rate  of 
thousands  of  bushels  the  hour.  And  the  wheat  sunk  into  the 
fore -hatch  while  a  man  looked — sunk  till  the  brown  timbers 
of  the  bulkheads  showed  bare  and  men  leaped  down  through 
clouds  of  golden  dust  and  shoveled  the  wheat  furiously  round 


296  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  V^ipUqd^ 

the  nose  of  tlie  trunk,  and  got  a  steam-shovel  of  glittering 
steel  and  made  that  shovel  also,  till  there  remained  of  the 
grain  not  more  than  a  horse  leaves  in  the  fold  of  his  nose-bag. 
In  this  manner  do  thej  handle  wheat  at  Buffalo.  On  one 
side  of  the  elevator  is  the  steamer,  on  the  other  the  railway 
track ;  and  the  wheat  is  loaded  into  the  cars  in  bulk.  "Wah ! 
wah !  God  is  great,  and  I  do  not  think  He  ever  intended  Gar 
Sahai  or  Luckman  Narain  to  supply  England  with  her  wheat. 
India  can  cut  in  not  without  profit  to  herself  when  her  har- 
vest is  good  and  the  American  yield  poor;  but  this  very  big 
country  can  upon  the  average  supply  the  earth  with  aU  the 
beef  and  bread  that  is  required. 

FEEE     TRADE    IN    SPEECH 

A  man  in  the  train  said  to  me ; 

^^We  kin  feed  all  the  earth,  jest  as  easily  as  we  kin  whip 
all  the  earth." 

Now  the  second  statement  is  as  false  as  the  first  is  true. 
One  of  these  days  the  respectable  Republic  will  find  this  out. 

Unfortunately  we,  the  English,  will  never  be  the  people 
to  teach  her ;  because  she  is  a  chartered  libertine  allowed  to 
say  and  do  anything  she  likes,  from  demanding  the  head  of 
the  empress  in  an  editorial  waste-basket  to  chev37ing  Ca- 
nadian schooners  up  and  down  the  Alaska  Seas.  It  is  per- 
fectly impossible  to  go  to  war  with  these  people,  whatever 
they  may  do. 

They  are  much  too  nice,  in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  sec- 
ondj  it  would  throw  out  all  the  passenger  traflSc  of  the  Atlan- 
tic and  upset  the  financial  arrangements  of  the  English  syndi- 
cates who  have  invested  their  money  in  breweries,  railways, 
and  the  like,  and  in  the  third,  it's  not  to  be  done.  Every- 
body knows  that,  and  no  one  better  than  the  American. " 

NEW    YORK    city's  PERILS 

Yet  there  are  other  powers  who  are  not  **ohai  band  "(of 
the  brotherhood) — China,  for  instance.  Try  to  believe  an 
irresponsible  writer  when  he  assures  you  that  China's  fleet 


/ImeriGai)  f/otes  ^     297 

to-day,  if  properly  manned,  could  waft  the  entire  American 
navy  out  of  the  v/ater  and  into  the  blue.  The  big,  fat  Re- 
public that  is  afraid  of  nothing  because  nothing  up  to  the 
present  date  has  happened  t.«  make  her  afraid,  is  as  unpro- 
tected as  a  jelly-fish.  Not  internally,  of  course' — it  would  be 
madness  for  any  Power  to  throw  men  into  America;  they 
would  die — but  as  far  as  regards  coast  defense. 

From  five  miles  out  at  sea  (I  Lave  seen  a  test  of  her  "forti- 
fied'' ports)  a  ship  of  the  power  of  H.M.S.  "Collingwood" 
(they  haven't  run  her  on  a  rock  yet?)  would  wipe  out  any  or 
every  town  from  San  Francisco  to  Long  Branch;  and  three 
first-class  ironclads  would  account  for  New  York,  Bartholdi's 
Statue  and  all. 

Reflect  on  this.  T would  be  *'Pay  up  or  go  up'*  round 
the  entire  coast  of  jhe  United  States.  To  this  furiously 
answers  the  patriotic  American: 

"We  should  not  pay.  We  should  invent  a  Columbiad  in 
Pittsburg  or — or  anywhere  else  and  blow  any  outsider  into 
h— 1." 

They  might  invent.  They  might  lay  waste  their  cities 
and  retire  inland,  for  they  can  subsist  entirely  on  their  own 
produce.  Meantime,  in  a  war  waged  the  only  way  it  could 
be  waged  by  an  unscrupulous  Power,  their  coast  cities  and 
their  dockyards  would  be  ashes.  They  could  construct  their 
navy  inland  if  they  liked,  but  you  could  never  bring  a  ship 
down  to  the  waterways,  as  they  stand  now. 

They  could  not,  with  an  ordinary  water  patrol,  dispatch 
one  regiment  of  men  six  miles  across  the  seas.  There  would 
be  about  five  million  excessively  angry,  armed  men,  pent  up 
within  American  limits.  These  men  would  require  ships  to 
get  themselves  afloat.  The  country  has  no  such  ships,  and 
until  the  ships  were  built  New  York  need  not  be  allowed  a 
single-wheeled  carriage  within  her  limits. 

Behold  now  the  glorious  condition  of  this  Republic  which 
has  no  fear.  There  is  ransom  and  loot  past  the  counting  of 
man  on  her  seaboard  alone — plunder  that  would  enrich  a 
nation — and  she  has  neither  a  navy  nor  half  a  dozen  first- 


298  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii>^ 

class  forts  to  guard  the  whole.  No  man  catches  a  snake  by 
the  tail,  because  the  creature  will  sting;  but  you  can  build 
a  fire  around  a  snake  that  will  make  it  squirm. 

The  country  is  supposed  to  be  building  a  navy  now.  When 
the  ships  are  completed  her  alliance  will  be  worth  having — if 
the  alhance  of  any  republic  can  be  relied  upon.  For  the  next 
three  years  she  can  be  hurt,  and  badly  hurt.  Pity  it  is  that 
she  is  of  our  own  blood,  looking  at  the  matter  from  a  Pin- 
darris  point  of  view.     Dog  cannot  eat  dog. 

OUR    LAKE    PORTS    DOOMED 

These  sinful  reflections  were  prompted  by  the  sight  of  the 
beautifully  unprotected  condition  of  Buffalo — a  city  that  could 
be  made  to  pay  up  five  million  dollars  without  feeling  it. 
There  are  her  companies  of  infantry  in  a  sort  of  fort  there. 
A  gunboat  brought  over  in  pieces  from  Niagara  could  get 
the  money  and  get  away  before  she  could  be  caught,  while 
an  unarmored  gunboat  guarding  Toronto  could  ravage  the 
towns  on  the  lakes.  When  one  hears  so  much  of  the  nation 
that  can  whip  the  earth,  it  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  surpris- 
ing to  find  her  so  temptingly  spankable. 

The  average  American  citizen  seems  to  have  a  notion  that 
any  Power  engaged  in  strife  with  the  Star  Spangled  Banner 
will  disembark  men  from  flat-bottomed  boats  on  a  convenient 
beach  for  the  purpose  of  being  shot  down  by  local  militia.  In 
his  own  simple  phraseology : 

"Not  by  a  darned  sight.     No,  sir." 

Ransom  at  long  range  will  be  about  the  size  of  it — cash 
or  crash. 

Let  us  revisit  calmer  scenes. 

PROVINCIAL    society's    DIVERSIONS  "  « 

In  the  heart  of  Buffalo  there  stands  a  magnificent  build'^ 
ing  which  the  population  do  innocently  style  a  music-hall. 
Everybody  comes  here  of  evenings  to  sit  round  little  tables 
and  listen  to  a  first-class  orchestra.  The  place  is  something 
like  the   Gaiety  Theater  at  Simla,   enlarged  twenty  times. 


/imericar)  flotes  299 

The  **  Light  Brigade"  of  Buffalo  occupy  the  boxes  and  the 
stage,  "as  it  was  at  Simla  in  the  days  of  old,"  and  the  others 
sit  in  the  parquet.  Here  I  went  with  a  friend — poor  or  boor 
is  the  man  who  cannot  pick  up  a  friend  for  a  season  in 
America — and  here  was  shown  the  really  smart  folk  of  the 
city.  I  grieve  to  say  I  laughed,  because  when  an  American 
wishes  to  be  correct  he  sets  himself  to  imitate  the  English- 
man. This  he  does  vilely,  and  earns  not  only  the  contempt 
of  his  brethren,  but  the  amused  scorn  of  the  Briton. 

I  saw  one  man  who  was  pointed  out  to  me  as  being  the 
glass  of  fashion  hereabout.  He  was  aggressively  English  in 
his  get-up.  From  eyeglass  to  trouser-hem  the  illusion  was 
perfect,  but — he  wore  with  evening-dress  buttoned  boots 
with  brown  cloth  tops!  Not  till  I  wandered  about  this 
land  did  I  understand  why  the  comic  papers  belabor  the 
Anglomaniac. 

Certain  young  men  of  the  more  idiotic  sort  launch  into 
dog-carts  and  raiment  of  English  cut,  and  here  in  Buffalo 
they  play  polo  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  I  saw  three  youths 
come  down  to  the  polo-ground  faultlessly  attired  for  the  game 
and  mounted  on  their  best  ponies.  Expecting  a  game,  I  lin- 
gered; but  I  was  mistaken.  These  three  shining  ones  with 
the  very  new  yellow  hide  boots  and  the  red  silk  sashes  had 
assembled  themselves  for  the  purpose  of  knocking  the  ball 
about.  They  smote  with  great  solemnity  up  and  down  the 
grounds,  while  the  little  boys  looked  on.  When  they  trotted, 
which  was  not  seldom,  they  rose  and  sunk  in  their  stirrups 
with  a  conscientiousness  that  cried  out  "Riding-school!"  from 
afar. 

Other  young  men  in  the  park  were  riding  after  the  En- 
glish manner,  in  neatly  cut  riding-trousers  and  light  saddles. 
Fate  in  derision  had  made  each  youth  bedizen  his  animal 
with  a  checkered  enameled  leather  brow-band  visible  half  a 
mile  away.  A  black-and-white  checkered  brow-band.  They 
can't  do  it,  any  more  than  an  Englishman  by  taking  cold  can 
add  that  indescribable  nasal  twang  to  his  orchestra. 


600  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  K^plii)^ 


ARGUMENTS    FOR    PROHIBITION 

The  other  sight  of  the  evening  was  a  horror.  The  little 
tragedy  played  itself  out  at  a  neighboring  table  where  two 
very  young  men  and  two  very  young  women  were  sitting. 
It  did  not  strike  me  till  far  into  the  evening  that  the  pimply 
young  reprobates  were  making  the  girls  drunk.  They  gave 
them  red  wine  and  then  white,  and  the  voices  rose  slightly 
with  the  maiden  cheeks'  flushes.  I  watched,  wishing  to 
stay,  and  the  youths  drank  till  their  speech  thickened  and 
their  eyeballs  grew  watery.  It  was  sickening  to  see,  because 
I  knew  what  was  going  to  happen.  My  friend  eyed  the 
group  and  said : 

"Maybe  they're  children  of  respectable  people.  I  hardly 
think,  though,  they'd  be  allowed  out  without  any  better  escort 
than  these  boys.  And  yet  the  place  is  a  place  where  every 
one  comes,  as  you  see.  They  may  be  Little  Immoralities — 
in  which  case  they  wouldn't  be  so  hopelessly  overcome  with 
two  glasses  of  wine.     They  may  be — " 

Whatever  they  were  they  got  indubitably  drunk — there 
in  that  lovely  hall,  surrounded  by  the  best  of  Buffalo  soci- 
ety. One  could  do  nothing  except  invoke  the  judgment  of 
Heaven  on  the  two  boys,  themselves  half  sick  with  liquor. 
At  the  close  of  the  performance  the  quieter  maiden  laughed 
vacantly  and  protested  she  couldn't  keep  her  feet.  The  four 
linked  arms,  and,  staggering,  flickered  out  into  the  street — 
drunkj  gentlemen  and  ladies,  as  Davy's  swine,  drunk  as 
lords!  They  disappeared  down  a  side  avenue,  but  I  could 
hear  their  laughter  long  after  they  were  out  of  sight. 

And  they  were  all  four  children  of  sixteen  and  seventeen. 
Then,  recanting  previous  opinions,  I  became  a  prohibitionist. 
Better  it  is  that  a  man  should  go  without  his  beer  in  public 
places,  and  content  himself  with  swearing  at  the  narrow- 
mindedness  of  the  majority;  better  it  is  to  poison  the  inside 
with  very  vile  temperance  drinks,  and  to  buy  lager  furtively 
at  back-doors,  than  to  bring  temptation  to  the  lips  of  youug 


/Imerieai^  f/otes  301 

fools  such  as  the  four  I  had  seen.  I  understand  now  why 
the  preachers  rage  against  drink.  I  have  said :  ' '  There  is  no 
harm  in  it,  taken  moderately;"  and  yet  my  own  demand  for 
beer  helped  directly  to  send  those  two  girls  reeling  down  the 
dark  street  to — God  alone  knows  what  end. 

If  liquor  is  worth  drinking,  it  is  worth  taking  a  little 
trouble  to  come  at — such  trouble  as  a  man  will  undergo  to 
compass  his  own  desires.  It  is  not  good  that  we  should  let 
it  lie  before  the  eyes  of  children,  and  I  have  been  a  fool  in 
vfriting  to  the  contrary.  Very  sorry  for  myself,  I  sought  a 
hotel,  and  found  in  the  hall  a  reporter  who  wished  to  know 
what  I  thought  of  the  country.  Him  I  lured  into  conversa« 
tion  about  his  own  profession,  and  from  him  gained  much 
that  confirmed  me  in  my  views  of  the  grinding  tyranny  of 
that  thing  which  they  call  the  press  here.     Thus: 

FRONTIER    PRESS    ENORMITIES 

I — But  you  talk  about  interviewing  people  whether  they 
like  it  or  not.  Have  you  no  bounds  beyond  which  even  your 
indecent  curiosity  must  not  go? 

He — I  haven't  struck  'em  yet.  What  do  you  think  of 
interviewing  a  widow  two  hours  after  her  husband's  death^ 
to  get  her  version  of  his  life? 

I — I  think  that  is  the  work  of  a  ghoul.  Must  the  people 
have  no  privacy? 

He — There  is  no  domestic  privacy  in  America.  If  there 
was,  what  the  deuce  would  the  papers  do?  See  here.  Some 
time  ago  I  had  an  assignment  to  write  up  the  floral  tributes 
when  a  prominent  citizen  had  died. 

I — Translate,  please;  I  don't  understand  your  pagan  rites 
and  ceremonies. 

He — I  was  ordered  by  the  office  to  describe  the  flowers 
and  wreaths,  and  so  on,  that  had  been  sent  to  a  dead  man's 
funeral.  WeU,  I  went  to  the  house.  There  was  no  one 
there  to  stop  me,  so  I  yanked  the  tinkler — pulled  the  bell — 
and  drifted  into  the  room  where  the  corpse  lay  all  among  the 
roses  and  smilax.     I  whipped  out  my  note-book  and  pawed 


302  U/orKs  of  F(udyard  K^plii?^ 

around  among  the  floral  tributes,  turning  up  the  tickets  on 
the  wreaths  and  seeing  who  had  sent  them.  In  the  middle 
of  this  I  heard  some  one  saying:  "Please,  oh,  please!"  be- 
hind me,  and  there  stood  the  daughter  of  the  house,  just 
bathed  in  tears — 

I — You  unmitigated  brute ! 

He — Prettj^  much  what  I  felt  myself.  "I'm  very  sorry, 
miss, ' '  I  said,  "to  intrude  on  the  privacy  of  your  grief.  Trust 
me,  I  shall  make  it  as  little  painful  as  possible. ' ' 

I — But  by  what  conceivable  right  did  you  outrage — 

He — Hold  your  horses.  I'm  telling  you.  Well,  she  didn't 
want  me  in  the  house  at  all,  and  between  her  sobs  fairly 
waved  me  away,  I  had  half  the  tributes  described,  though, 
and  the  balance  I  did  partly  on  the  steps  when  the  stiff  'un 
came  out,  and  partly  in  the  chiiroh.  The  preacher  gave  a 
sermon.  That  wasn't  my  assignment.  I  skipped  about 
among  the  floral  tributes  while  he  was  talking.  I  couid 
have  made  no  excuse  if  I  had  gone  back  to  the  office  and 
said  that  a  pretty  girl's  sobs  had  stopped  me  obeying  orders. 
I  had  to  do  it.     What  do  you  think  of  it  all? 

I  (slowly) — Do  you  want  to  know? 

He  (with  his  note-book  ready) — Of  course.  How  do  you 
regard  it? 

I  —It  makes  me  regard  your  interesting  nation  with  the 
same  shuddering  curiosity  that  I  should  bestow  on  a  Pappan 
cannibal  chewing  the  scalp  off  his  mother's  skull.  Does  that 
convey  any  idea  to  your  mind?  It  makes  me  regard  the 
whole  pack  of  you  as  heathens — real  heathens — not  the  sort 
you  send  missions  to — creatures  of  another  flesh  and  blood. 
You  ought  to  have  been  shot,  not  dead,  but  through  the 
stomach,  for  your  share  in  the  scandalous  business,  and  the 
thing  you  call  your  newspaper  ought  to  have  been  sacked 
by  the  mob  and  the  managing  proprietor  hanged. 

He — From  which  I  suppose  you  have  nothing  of  that 
kir.d  in  your  country? 

Oh,  Pioneer,  venerable  Pioneer,  and  you  not  less  honest 
press  of  India  who  are  occasionally  dull  but  never  black- 


guardly,  what  could  I  say?  A  mere  "^NTo,''  shouted  never 
so  loudly,  would  not  have  met  the  needs  of  the  case.  I  said 
no  word. 

The  reporter  went  away,  and  I  took  a  train  for  !N"iagara 
Falls,  which  are  twenty-two  miles  distant  from  this  bad 
town,  where  girls  get  drunk  of  nights  and  reporters  trample 
on  corpses  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  brave  and  the  free'. 


KIPLING    BROUGHT   TO    BOOK 


SHARPLY    TAKEN    TO    TASK    BY    A    JERSEY    GIRL    FOR 
SUPERFICIALITY    AND    CONCEIT 

Oh,  wide-eyed  young  Ithuriel,  be  patient  with  us!  Re- 
member our  inheritances  and  cHmate,  and  forgive  us  that  we 
are  nasal-toned,  thieves,  and  braggarts. 

We  admit,  in  sack-cloth  and  ashes,  that  we  do  steal  books, 
but  we  are  outgrowing  our  inheritance  in  that  direction. 
There  are  many  among  us  who  read  only  **  authorized  edi- 
tions," and  while  as  yet  it  seems  we  must  steal,  isn't  it  some- 
thing  that  we  confine  ourselves  to  books,  and  are  not  pirates 
upon  the  high  seas,  nor  take  countries,  nor  commerce,  nor 
patents  of  other  nations? 

Let  us  hope,  for  in  all  good  things  nations  grow  slowly, 
that  in  time  these  very  books  may  help  us  to  some  higher 
level — to  some  real  progress. 

When  our  eagle  screams  over  the  material  progress  of  our 
young  cities,  what  is  it  but  a  remnant  of  the  old  Viking  spirit, 
shouting  its  psean  of  victory  over  terrible  obstacles  conquered. 
Could  you  have  seen  the  wide,  muddy  wastes  where  Chicago 
now  is  only  a  few  years  ago  (mere  moments  in  a  nation's 
life),  you  would  better  understand  the  reason  of  her  exulta- 
tion over  her  achievements  in  iron  and  wood.  She  may  well 
be  proud  of  them,  and  of  many  other  things — her  princely 


304  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplip9 

hospitality,  her  grand  generosity,  and  her  attainments  in  art 
and  literature.  She  is  young,  and  may  be  forgiven  her  con- 
ceit when  even  our  elder,  the  British  lion,  has  not  yet  out- 
grovni  it. 

We  are  conceited,  and  in  our  ignorance  had  even  thought 
that  nations,  guided  by  their  environments  and  exigencies, 
developed  a  type  of  civilization,  a  growth  in  material,  finan- 
cial, military,  and  all  other  arts  and  sciences,  best  adapted  to 
their  needs  and  possibilities.  So  believing,  we  were  proud  of 
many  things  —our  schools — even  West  Point,  that  could  turn 
out  such  men  as  Grant  and  Sherman,  who  could  return  to 
civil  life,  and  then,  when  the  need  arose,  show  that  the 
** leaven  of  West  Point"  had  not  made  of  them  a  ''nuisance." 

But  the  gods  have  been  good  to  us,  and  have  raised  up 
an  adolescent  Englishman,  skilled  in  the  refinements  of  Indian 
barracks  and  London  Bohemian  life,  with  a  "pattern  on  his 
thumb-nail,"  to  teach  us  modesty,  culture,  military  and 
political  wisdom,  and,  in  short,  what  true  progress  is. 

We  are  a  courageous  people,  and  once  we  understand  our 
failures  we  try  again.  Although,  owing  to  climatic  and 
other  differences,  we  may  never  attain  to  the  soft  tones  or 
pure  and  homogeneous  English  of  our  mother  country,  it  is 
something  to  have  high  ideals. 

By  the  way,  how  sweet  and  soothing  to  your  rasped  ears 
must  have  been  the  pure  English  of  the  Dorset  maid  in  Salt 
Lake — like  a  pure  fountain  in  the  desert.  Then,  too,  the 
knowledge  that  your  compatriots  ''had  their  land  all  right" 
must  have  been  an  "added  rose  leaf."  Thus  are  the  gods 
mindful  of  their  messengers  and  comfort  them  in  their  need. 

It  is  blissful  to  reflect  that  amid  our  many  imperfections 
the  brightness  of  American  dollars  proves  one  redeeming, 
alluring  trait,  and  perhaps  in  time,  being  thus  led  by  wisdom, 
we  may  amend  our  ways  and  part  with  them  even  more 
readily,  paying  for  all  the  wit  and  pathos  we  appropriate, 
appreciate,  and  enjoy,  thus  attaining  to  truer  progress. 

We  will  not  resent  your  looking  on  the  surface  onl}^,  so 
long  as  you  do  not  find  among  us  Anglo- Indian  women  as 


Amerieai)  INTotes  305 

you  have  seen  them.  The  hope  arises  that  with  them  you 
have  not  given  them  all  the  charity  that  was  their  duGe  Like 
poor  Chicago,  they  may  have  had  grand  traits  you  have  not 
learned. 

Score  us  as  you  may,  but  remember,  in  a  sense  you  belong 
to  us.  Before  you  were  our  censor  we  had  been  with  you  in 
too  many  camps,  in  times  of  fun,  of  dangers  and  of  death,  for 
the  bonds  of  sympathy  to  be  easily  loosened.  Your  heroes, 
*'The  Man  That  Was,''  '"  Wee  Willie,"  '^Private  Mulvaney,'^ 
and  all  the  others,  are  our  friends,  too.  They  make  a  part 
of  our  lives,  and  we  thank  you  for  bringing  them  to  our 
knowledge,  and  we  shall  follow  you  with  broadest  sympathies 
and  hopes  that  in  seeing  the  weaknesses,  the  sweetness  of 
which  each  has  some  litfcle  share^  may  not  escape  your  notice^ 
and  so,  farewell.  Harriet  P 

Jersey  City. 


ANDREW   LANG   ON   KIPLING 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  SEVERELY:  SCORED,  AND  BY  AN  ENGLISH- 
MAN—THE AUTHOR  AS  SEEN  AT  HOME—KIPLING  DIS* 
CARDED  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  ADVICE — OTHER  THINGS  IM 
AMERICA  BESIDES  POMPOUS  HOTEL  CLERKS,  SHRILL- 
VOICED  WOMEN,  AND  SPITTOONS— PERHAPS  HE  IS  FUNNY 
TO  US 

A  COMPATRIOT  of  Rudyard  Kipling,  obviously  Andrew 
Lang,  thus  takes  him  editorially  to  task  in  the  London  '*  Daily 
News"  for  his  recently  published  articles  on  America: 

Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  is  displeased  with  America.  He 
does  not  like  its  ways.  He  disapproves  of  its  hotel  clerks. 
He  is  offended  by  its  accent,  especially  by  the  accent  of  its 
women.     He  is  disquieted  by  its  interviewers;  and  on  that 


306  U/orKs  of  f^udyard  K^plip^ 

point  we  can  only  say  that  we  are  not  surprised.  But  it  is 
only  fair  to  say  that  there  are  interviewers  in  other  lands  as 
well  as  in  the  American  States.  America  may  have  had  the 
odious  distinction  of  inventing  the  interviewer,  but  other 
countries  have  had  the  still  more  odious  responsibility  of 
adopting  and  nationalizing  and  multiplying  him.  America 
may  have  sinned  by  inventing  him  out  of  pure  lightness  of 
heart,  but  surely  the  countries  that,  forewarned,  and,  there^ 
fore  forearmed,  encouraged  him  to  grow  and  blossom  and 
bourgeon  and  spread  among  them  are  more  culpable  still 
than  even  his  heedless  inventors.  However,  we  are  not 
going  to  find  fault  with  Mr.  Kipling  because  he  does  not  like 
interviewers.  He  says  they  have  no  such  newspaper  tribe  in 
India;  but  then,  can  it  be  that  Mr.  Kipling  never  reads  any 
of  the  Indian  newspapers?  Or  can  it  be  that  in  the  Indian 
newspapers  the  editors  invent  the  interviews  without  taking 
the  trouble  to  send  round  the  interviewer  to  waylay  his  vic- 
tim? If  we  can  trust  the  evidence  of  our  eyes,  the  interviews 
do  now  and  then  appear  in  Indian  newspapers ;  but  perhaps 
Mr.  Kipling's  point  is  that  it  would  be  more  convenient  to 
have  the  interviews  published  without  having  the  interviewed 
put  to  the  trouble  of  a  call  from  the  interviewer.  There 
certainly  is  something  in  that. 

The  American,  Mr.  Kipling  says,  has  no  language.  *'He 
is  dialect,  slang,  provincialism,  accent,  and  so  forth."  Now 
that  Mr.  Kipling  has  heard  American  voices  all  the  beauty 
of  Bret  Harte  is  ruined  for  him.  He  finds  himself  catching 
through  the  roll  of  Bret  Harte's  rhythmical  prose  the  cadence 
of  Bret  Harte's  peculiar  fatherland.  It  is  rather  a  pity  that 
a  traveler  should  be  so  curiously  sensitive.  It  is  rather  a 
pity,  too,  that  a  traveler  should  be  so  general  or  so  monotonous 
in  his  impressions.  "We  do  not  know  how  much  of  America 
Mr.  Kipling  has  seen  or  heard,  but  he  certainly  writes  about 
accents  as  if  he  was  under  the  impression  that  New  York 
and  Vermont  give  tongue  and  tone  to  America.  "Get  an 
American  lady,"  he  says,  "to  read  to  you  'How  Santa  Clans 
Came  to  Simpson's  Bar,'  and  see  how  much  is,  under  her 


^merieaQ  |^ot8S  307 

tongue,  left  of  the  beauty  of  the  original.'*  An  American 
lady?  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  such  a  reading,  say  by 
Miss  Ada  Kehan,  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  to  listen  to. 
There  are  soft,  sweet  voices  of  women  along  the  Pacific  slope, 
and  there  are  musical  tones  in  Virginia,  and  enchanting 
accents  in  Louisiana.  !N"ot  all  the  voices  of  Anglo-Indian 
women  are  like  the  voice  of  Cordelia,  and  there  are  doubtless 
English  ladies  whose  reading  from  Shakespeare  would  be 
sadly  to  the  prejudice  of  the  immortal  bard  in  the  ears  of  a 
too  sensitive  hstener. 

ADVICE   OF  DICKENS 

If  one  is  in  a  mood  to  find  fault  one  finds  reasons  for  fault- 
finding. Dickens  strongly  advised  people  never  to  travel 
with  the  preconceived  idea :  ' '  How  clever  I  am,  and  how 
funny  every  one  else  is."  Dickens  himself,  perhaps,  began 
his  own  traveling  with  something  of  this  idea,  but  his  warn- 
ing against  it  was  only  the  more  justifiable  on  that  account. 
Mr.  Kipling  evidently  went  to  America  with  the  conviction 
down  deep  in  his  soul,  *'IIow  clever  I  am,  and  how  funny 
every  one  else  is. ' '  His  estimate  of  himself  is  reasonable 
enough,  but  we  distrust  his  estimate  of  every  one  else. 

In  a  certain  Bohemian  Club  Mr.  Kipling  was  told  some 
good  stories,  specimens  of  which  he  reproduces.  Is  it  possible 
that  the  little  chestnut-bell  was  not  rung  while  these  stories 
were  being  told?  For  they  are  as  old  as  the  hills  from  which 
the  ' '  Plain  Tales' '  themselves  have  come.  The  tellers  of  the 
stories  must,  have  felt  a  fearful  joy  when  they  found  they 
had  got  hold  of  a  young  man  fresh  from  India  to  whom  these 
ancient  narratives  were  new  and  amusing.  Mr.  Kipling,  it 
is  right  to  say,  is  grateful  for  the  stories,  even  if  he  is  not 
grateful  for  anything  else  in  America.  His  books  are  well 
appreciated  in  the  United  States.  He  was  recognized  in 
America  as  soon,  or  almost  as  soon,  as  he  was  recognized 
here.  It  is  certainly  a  sign  and  an  evidence  of  his  inde- 
pendence of  character,  and  the  unpurchasable  toughness  of 
his  judgment,  that  he  cannot  be  won  over  by  mere  praise. 


308  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{ipViT)<^ 

If  he  does  not  like  a  lady's  accent  lie  bluntly  says  so,  even 
though  the  tones  that  grated  on  his  ears  may  have  been  rasp- 
ing out  unmeasured  eulogy  of  his  latest  and  his  favorite 
masterpiece.  The  hotel  clerk,  whom  he  detests,  may  have 
observed  to  him:  '*Mr.  Kiphng,  sir,  I  have  read  all  your 
books.  Mr.  Kipling,  sir,  I  know  all  your  books  backward." 
An  ordinary  author  would  perhaps  be  mollified  a  little,  for 
the  vanity  of  authorship  is  a  common  weakness  in  the  tribe. 
But  Mr.  Kipling  is  not  to  be  mollified  in  this  way.  He  does 
not  like  the  hotel  clerk,  and  he  thinks  all  hotel  clerks  are 
built  the  same  way.  He  **goes  for"  the  hotel  clerk  ac- 
cordingly. 

Poor  hotel  clerks!  We  have  heard,  we  have  read,  we 
have  dreamed,  that  some  of  them  are  remarkably  civil  and 
obliging  persons.  We  have  been  told— or  have  read  in  ro- 
mance, perhaps— of  English  travelers  who  have  found  much 
comfort  in  their  American  wanderings  from  the  courtesy  and 
the  kind  attentiveness  of  the  hotel  clerk.  But  there  are  hotel 
clerks  of  various  kinds,  and  there  are  travelers  of  various 
kinds. 

VIRTUE  IN  OUR  SLANG 

Mr.  Kipling  finds  fault  with  the  slang  of  America.  There 
is  no  doubt  a  great  deal  of  slang  in  America.  But  the  one 
virtue  of  American  slang  is  that  it  is  an  effort  to  find  new 
and  expressive  phrases  for  new  objects  and  new  <jonditions  of 
life.  Our  slang  here  is  usually  employed  to  give  a  second  and 
what  is  supposed  to  be  a  comical  name  to  something  which 
has  already  a  well  established  and  recognized  name  of  its 
own.  This  fact  was  pointed  out  and  well  illustrated  by  Bret 
Harte  years  and  years  ago.  We  have  a  good  deal  of  slang  in 
England,  and  judging  by  Mr.  Kipling's  novels,  they  must 
have  an  immense  amount  of  slang  in  the  English  society  of 
Indian  regions,  Mr.  Kipling's  latest  novel,  **The  Light  That 
Failed,"  is  a  story  of  England,  and  is  practically  all  slang. 
The  men  and  women  never  for  one  sentence,  never  by  any 
chance,  talk  pure  English.     The  whole  conversation  is  a 


/imerieai?  f/otes  309 

mere  jargon  which  to  a  foreigner  not  well  skilled  in  the  En- 
glish vernacular  of  daily  life  would  be  a  hopeless  puzzle  out 
of  which  no  dictionary  could  help  him.  It  is  all  very  clever, 
very  spirited,  very  much  like  the  real  English  life  of  the  class 
the  story  describes  and  of  to-day,  and  in  its  very  realism  an 
American  might  find  the  easiest  answer  to  Mr.  Kipling's 
charge  about  the  overdoing  of  slang  in  the  United  States. 

If  Mr.  Kipling's  dialogues  were  not  true  to  life  in  certain 
English  society,  then  Mr.  Kipling  would  be  still  entitled  to 
find  fault  with  the  slang  of  certain  American  society.  But 
if  Mr.  Kipling's  English  slang  is  genuine — and  it  is — ^why 
talk  of  America  as  if  it  were  the  one  country  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  from  the  lips  of  whose  children  comes  forth  the 
language  of  slang?  Some  of  the  customs  which  Mr.  Kipling 
describes  as  still  existing  in  America  were  existing  no  doubt 
in  the  days  of  Martin  Chuzziewit,  but  from  what  we  have 
heard,  and  still  more  perhaps  from  what  we  have  not  heard, 
we  should  not  have  been  inclined  to  regard  them  as  existing 
now.  Still,  Mr.  Kipling  is  the  man  who  has  been  there  and 
ought  to  know.  It  is  some  comfort  to  any  one  who  may  have 
to  travel  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  to  beheve  that  there 
are  other  things  in  America  besides  pompous  hotel  clerks  and 
shrill -voiced  women  and  spittoons.  'No,  visitor  is  compelled 
to  engage  his  attention  only  with  these  subjects  of  study. 


END   OF   "  AMERICAN  NOTES 


UNDER  THE  DEODARS 

AND  OTHER   TALES 


UNDER   THE   DEODARS 
THE  EDUCATION  OF  OTIS  YEEEE 

'      I 

SHOWING    HOW    THE    GREAT    IDEA    Vt^AS    BORN 

In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes 
**God  bless  all  our  gains,"  say  we ; 

But  "May  God  bless  all  our  losses," 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 

— Hie  Lost  Bower 

This  is  the  history  of  a  Failure ;  but  the  woman  who 
failed  said  it  might  be  an  instructive  tale  to  put  into  print 
for  the  benefit  of  the  younger  generation.  The  younger  gen- 
eration does  not  want  instruction.  It  is  perfectly  willing 
to  instruct  if  any  one  will  listen  to  it.  None  the  less,  here 
begins  the  story  where  every  right-minded  story  should  be- 
gin, that  is  to  say,  at  Simla,  where  all  things  begin  and 
many  come  to  an  evil  end. 

The  mistake  was  due  to  a  very  clever  woman  making  a 
blunder  and  not  retrieving  it.  Men  are  licensed  to  stumble, 
but  a  clever  woman's  mistake  is  outside  the  regular  course  of 
Nature  and  Providence ;  since  all  good  people  know^  that  a 
woman  is  the  only  infallible  thing  in  this  world,  except  Gov- 
ernment paper  of  the  '79  issue,  bearing  interest  at  four  and 
a  half  per  cent.  Yet,  we  have  to  remember  that  six  consecu- 
tive days  of  rehearsing  the  star-part  of  "The  Fallen  Angel," 
at  the  New  Gaiety  Theater,  where  the  plaster  is  not  yet 
(310) 


Hinder  tl^e  Deodars  311 

properly  dry,  might  have  brought  about  an  unhingement  of 
spirits  which,  again,  might  have  led  to  eccentricities. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  came  to  *'The  Foundry"  to  tiffin  with 
Mrs.  Mallowe,  her  one  bosom  friend,  for  she  was  in  no  sense 
"a  woman's  woman."  And  it  was  a  woman's  tiffin,  the 
door  shut  to  all  the  world ;  and  they  both  talked  chiffons, 
which  is  French  for  Mysteries. 

"I've  enjoyed  an  interval  of  sanity,"  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
announced,  after  tiffin  was  over  and  the  two  were  comfort- 
ably settled  in  the  little  writing-room  that  opened  out  of  Mrs, 
Mallowe's  bedroom. 

^'My  dear  girl,  what  has  he  done?"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
sweetly.  It  is  noticeable  that  ladies  of  a  certain  age  call 
each  other  *'dear  girl,"  just  as  commissioners  of  twenty- 
eight  years'  standing  address  their  equals  in  the  Civil  List 
as  "my  boyo" 

"There's  no  he  in  the  case.  Who  am  I  that  an  imaginary 
man  should  be  always  credited  to  me?     Am  I  an  Apache?" 

"No,  dear;  but  somebody's  scalp  is  generally  drying  at 
your  wigwam  door.     Soaking,  rather." 

This  was  an  illusion  to  the  Hawley  Boy,  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  riding  all  across  Simla  in  the  Eains,  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Hauksbee.     That  lady  laughed. 

"For  my  sins,  the  Aide  at  Tyrconnel  last  night  told  mo 
off  to  The  Mussuck.  Hush !  Don't  laugh.  One  of  my  most 
devoted  admirers.  When  duff  came  in — some  one  really 
ought,  to  teach  them  to  make  puddings  at  Tyrconnel — The 
Mussuck  was  at  liberty  to  attend  to  me." 

"Sweet  soul!  I  know  his  appetite,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 
"Did  he,  oh,  did  he,  begin  his  wooing?" 

"By  a  special  mercy  of  Providence,  no.  He  explained 
his  importance  as  a  Pillar  of  the  Empire.     I  didn't  laugh. ' ' 

"Lucy,  I  don't  believe  you." 

"Ask  Captain  Sangar;  he  was  on  the  other  side.  Well, 
as  I  was  saying.  The  Mussuck  dilated." 

"I  think  I  can  see  him  doing  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
pensively,  scratching  her  fox-terrier's  ears. 


312  \I/,xK8  of  F^udyard  lt{ipViT)<^ 


«<" 


'I  was  properly  impressed.  Most  properly.  I  yawned 
openly.  'Strict  supervision,  and  play  them  off  one  against 
the  other/  said  The  Mussuck,  shoveling  down  his  ice  by 
tureenfuls,  I  assure  you.  ^That,  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  is  the 
secret  of  our  Government.'  " 

Mrs.  Malbwe  laughed  long  and  merrily.  *'And  what 
did  you  say?" 

^'Did  you  ever  know  me  at  loss  for  an  answer  yet?  I 
said:  'So  I  have  observed  in  my  dealings  with  you.'  The 
Mussuck  swelled  with  pride.  He  is  coming  to  call  on  me 
to-morrow.     The  Hawley  Boy  is  coming  too." 

'*  'Strict  supervision,  and  play  them  off  one  against  the 
other.  That,  Mrs,  Hauksbee,  is  the  secret  of  our  Govern- 
ment.' And  I  daresay  if  we  could  get  to  The  Mussuck's 
heart,  we  should  find  that  he  considers  himseK  a  man  of  the 
world." 

"  As  h©  is  on  the  other  two  things.  I  like  The  Mussuck, 
and  I  won't  have  you  call  him  names.     He  amuses  me. " 

*'H©  has  reformed  you,  too,  by  what  appears.  Explain 
the  interval  of  sanity,  and  hit  Tim  on  the  nose  with  the 
paper-cutter,  please.  That  dog  is  too  fond  of  sugar.  Do 
you  take  milk  in  yours?'* 

'^ITOj  thanks.  Polly,  I^m  wearied  of  this  life.  It's  hol- 
low." 

"Turn  rehgious,  then.  I  always  said  that  Rome  would 
be  your  fate*" 

"Only  exchanging  half  a  dozen  attaches  in  red  for  one  in 
black,  and  if  I  fasted,  the  wrinkles  would  come,  and  never, 
never  go.  Has  it  ever  struck  you,  dear,  that  I'm  getting 
old?" 

"Thanks  for  your  courtesy.  1*11  return  it.  Ye-es,  we 
are  both  not  exactly— how  shall  I  put  it?" 

"What  we  have  been.  'I  feel  it  in  my  bones,'  as  Mrs. 
Orossley  says.     Polly,  I've  wasted  my  life." 

"As  how?" 

"!N'ever  mind  how.  I  feel  it.  1  want  to  be  a  Power 
before  I  die." 


Ui>der  tl?e  Deodars  313 

*^Be  a  Power  then.  You've  wits  enough  for  anything 
.  .  .  and  beauty?*' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  pointed  a  teaspoon  straight  at  her  hostess. 
*' Polly,  if  you  heap  compliments  on  me  Hke  this,  I  shall  cease 
to  beheye  that  you're  a  woman.  Tell  me  how  I  am  to  be  a 
Power." 

"Inform  The  Mussuck  that  he  is  the  most  fascinating 
and  slimmest  man  in  Asia,  and  he'U  tell  you  anything  and 
everything  you  please. " 

*' Bother  The  Mussuck!  I  mean  an  intellectual  Power — 
not  a  gras-power.     Polly,  I'm  going  to  start  a  salon." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  turned  lazily  on  the  sofa  and  rested  her 
head  on  her  hand.  "Hear  the  words  of  the  Preacher,  the 
son  of  Baruch." 

"  Will  you  talk  sensibly?" 

"I  wiU,  dear,  for  I  see  that  you  are  going  to  make  a 
mistake." 

* '  I  never  made  a  mistake  in  my  life— at  least,  never  one 
that  I  couldn't  explain  away  afterward." 

"Going  to  make  a  mistake,"  went  on  Mrs.  Mallowe,  com- 
posedly. "It  is  impossible  to  start  a  salon  in  Simla.  A  bar 
would  be  much  more  to  the  point." 

"Perhaps;  but  why?    It  seems  so  easy." 

"Just  what  makes  it  so  difficult.  How  many  clever 
women  are  there  in  Simla?" 

"Myself  and  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

"Modest  woman  1  Mrs.  Feardon  would  thank  you  for 
that.     And  how  many  clever  men?" 

"Oh — er— -hundreds,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  vaguely. 

"What  a  fatal  blunder  I  Not  one.  They  are  all  bespoke 
by  the  Government.  Take  my  husband,  for  instance.  Jack 
was  a  clever  man,  though  I  say  so  who  shouldn't.  Govern- 
ment has  eaten  him  up.  AU  his  ideas  and  powers  of  con- 
versation—he reaUy  used  to  be  a  good  talker,  even  to  his 
wife,  in  the  old  days— are  taken  from  him  by  this — this 
kitchen-sink  of  a  Government.  That's  the  case  with  every 
Vol.  3.  -  (4 


314:  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplir?^ 

man  up  here  who  is  at  work.  I  don't  suppose  a  Russian 
convict  under  the  knout  is  able  to  amuse  the  rest  of  his  gang ; 
and  all  our  men-folk  here  are  gilded  convicts." 

"But  there  are  scores — " 

'*I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  Scores  of  idle  men 
up  on  leave.  I  admit  it,  but  they  are  all  of  two  objection- 
able sets.  The  Civilian  who'd  be  dehghtful  if  he  had  the 
military  man's  knowledge  of  the  world  and  style,  and  the 
military  man  who'd  be  adorable  if  he  had  the  Civilian's 
culture." 

"Detestable  word!  Have  Civilians  culchaw?  I  never 
studied  the  breed  deeply." 

"Don't  make  fun  of  Jack's  service.  Yes.  They're  hke 
the  teapoys  in  the  Lakka  Bazaar — good  material,  but  not 
polished.  They  can't  help  themselves,  poor  dears.  A  Civil- 
ian only  begins  to  be  tolerable  after  he  has  knocked  about 
the  world  for  fifteen  years." 

"And  a  military  man?" 

"When  he  has  had  the  same  amount  of  service.  The 
young  of  both  species  are  horrible.  You  would  have  scores 
of  them  in  your  salon." 

"I  would  notr^  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  fiercely.  "I  would 
tell  the  bearer  to  darwaza  band  them.  I'd  put  their  own 
colonels  and  commissioners  at  the  door  to  turn  them  away. 
I'd  give  them  to  the  Topsham  girl  to  play  with." 

"The  Topsham  girl  would  be  grateful  for  the  gift.  But 
to  go  back  to  the  salon.  Allowing  that  you  had  gathered  all 
your  men  and  women  together,  what  would  you  do  with 
them?  Make  them  talk?  They  would  all  with  one  accord 
begin  to  flirt.  Your  salon  would  become  a  glorified  Peliti's 
— a  *  Scandal  Point'  by  lamplight." 

"There's  a  certain  amount  of  wisdom  in  that  view." 

'  *  There's  all  the  wisdom  in  the  world  in  it.  Surely,  twelve 
Simla  seasons  ought  to  have  taught  you  that  you  can't  focus 
anything  in  India ;  and  a  salon,  to  be  any  good  at  all,  must 
be  permanent.  In  two  seasons  your  roomful  would  be  scat- 
tered all  over  Asia.     "We  are  only  little  bits  of  dirt  on  the 


Hinder  tl^e  Deodars  315 

hillsides — here  one  day  and  blown  down  the  khud  the  next. 
"We  have  lost  the  art  of  talking — at  least  our  men  have.  We 
have  no  cohesion — " 

"George  Eliot  in  the  flesh,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
wickedly. 

"And  collectively,  my  dear  scoffer,  we,  men  and  women 
alike,  have  no  influence.  Come  into  the  veranda  and  look 
at  the  Mall." 

The  two  looked  down  on  the  now  rapidly  filling  road,  for 
all  Simla  was  abroad  to  steal  a  stroll  between  a  shower  and 
a  fog. 

"How  do  you  propose  to  ^  that  river?  Look!  There's 
The  Mussuck — head  of  goodness  knows  what.  He  is  a  power 
in  the  land,  though  he  does  eat  like  a  costermonger.  There's 
Colonel  Blone,  and  General  Grucher,  and  Sir  Dugald  Delane, 
and  Sir  Henry  Haughton,  and  Mr.  Jellalatty.  All  Heads  of 
Departments,  and  all  powerful," 

"And  all  my  fervent  admirers,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
piously.  "Sir  Henry  Haughton  raves  about  me.  But  go 
on." 

"One  by  one,  these  men  are  worth  something.  Collect- 
ively, they're  just  a  mob  of  Anglo- Indians.  Who  cares  for 
what  Anglo- Indians  say?  Your  salon  won't  weld  the  De- 
partments together  and  make  you  mistress  of  India,  dear. 
And  these  creatures  won't  talk  administrative  *shop'  in  a 
crowd — ^your  salon— because  they  are  so  afraid  of  the  men  in 
the  lower  ranks  overhearing  it.  They  have  forgotten  what 
of  Literature  and  Art  they  ever  knew,  and  the  women — " 

"Can't  talk  about  anything  except  the  last  Gymkhana, 
or  the  sins  of  their  last  dhai.  I  was  calling  on  Mrs.  Derwills 
this  morning. " 

"You  admit  that?  They  can  talk  to  the  subalterns 
though,  and  the  subalterns  can  talk  to  them.  Your  salon 
would  suit  their  views  admirably,  if  you  respected  the  rehg- 
ious  prejudices  of  the  country  and  provided  plenty  of  kala 
juggahs." 

"Plenty  of  kala  juggahs.       Oh,   my   poor   little   idea! 


316  U/orl^s  of  l^udyard  l^iplip^ 

Kala  juggahs  in  a  salon!  But  who  made  you  so  awfully 
clever?'* 

** Perhaps  I've  tried  myself;  or  perhaps  I  know  a  woman 
who  has.  I  have  preached  and  expounded  the  whole  matter, 
and  the  conclusion  thereof — " 

"You  needn't  go  on.  'Is  Vanity.'  Polly,  I  thank  you. 
These  vermin" — Mrs.  Hauksbee  waved  her  hand  from  the 
veranda  to  two  men  in  the  crowd  below  who  had  raised  their 
hats  to  her — *' these  vermin  shall  not  rejoice  in  a  new  Scan- 
dal Point  or  an  extra  Peliti's.  I  will  abandon  the  notion  of 
a  salon.  It  did  seem  so  tempting,  though.  But  what  shall 
I  do?     I  must  do  something." 

*'Why?     Are  not  Abana  and  Pharphar— " 

*'Jack  has  made  you  nearly  as  bad  as  himself!  I  want 
to,  of  course.  I'm  tired  of  everything  and  everybody,  from 
a  moonlight  picnic  at  Seepee,  to  the  blandishments  of  The 
Mussuck." 

"Yes — that  comes,  too,  sooner  or  later.  Have  you  nerve 
enough  to  make  your  bow  yet?" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  mouth  shut  grimly.  Then  she  laughed. 
*'I  think  I  see  myself  doing  it.  Big  pink  placards  on  the 
Mall:  'Mrs.  Hauksbee!  Positively  her  last  appearance  on 
any  stage!  This  is  to  give  notice!'  !N"o  more  dances;  no 
more  rides  or  luncheons ;  no  more  theatricals  with  supper  to 
follow ;  no  more  sparring  with  one's  dearest,  dearest  friend ; 
no  more  fencing  with  an  inconvenient  man  who  hasn't  wit 
enough  to  clothe  what  he's  pleased  to  call  his  sentiments  in 
passable  speech ;  no  more  parading  of  The  Mussuck  while 
Mrs.  Tarkass  calls  all  round  Simla,  spreading  horrible  stories 
about  me !  No  more  of  anything  that  is  thoroughly  weary- 
ing, abominable  and  detestable,  but,  all  the  same,  makes  life 
worth  the  having.  Yes !  I  see  it  all !  Don't  interrupt,  Polly, 
I'm  inspired.  A  mauve  and  white  striped  'cloud'  round  my 
venerable  shoulders,  a  seat  in  the  fifth  row  of  the  Gaiety, 
and  both  horses  sold.  Delightful  vision!  A  comfortable 
armchair,  situated  in  three  different  draughts,  at  every  ball- 
room;  and  nice,  large,  sensible  shoes  for  all  the  couples  to 


Ui)der  tl?e  Deodars  317 

stumble  over  as  thej  go  into  the  veranda  I  Then  at  supper. 
Can't  you  imagine  the  scene?  The  greedy  mob  gone  away. 
Reluctant  subaltern,  pink  all  over  like  a  newly  powdered 
baby — ^they  really  ought  to  tan  subalterns  before  they  are 
exported — Polly — sent  back  by  the  hostess  to  do  his  duty. 
Slouches  up  to  me  across  the  room,  tugging  at  a  glove  two 
sizes  too  large  for  him — I  hate  a  man  who  wears  gloves  like 
overcoats — and  trying  to  look  as  if  he'd  thought  of  it  from 
the  first.  *May  I  ah-have  the  pleasure  'f  takin'  you  *nt' 
supper?'  Then  I  get  up  with  a  hungry  smile.  Just  like 
this." 

**  Lucy,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd?" 

*'And  sweep  out  on  his  arm.  Sol  After  supper  I  shall 
go  away  early,  you  know,  because  I  shall  be  afraid  of  catch- 
ing cold.  2To  one  will  look  for  my  'rickshaw.  Mine,  so 
please  you  I  I  shall  stand,  always  with  that  mauve  and 
white  *  cloud'  over  my  head,  while  the  wet  soaks  into  my 
dear,  old,  venerable  feet  and  Tom  swears  and  shouts  for  the 
memsahib's  gharri.  Then  home  to  bed  at  half  past  eleven! 
Truly  excellent  life — helped  out  by  the  visits  of  the  Padrij 
Just  fresh  from  burying  somebody  down  below  there."  She 
pointed  through  the  pines,  toward  the  cemetery,  and  continued 
with  vigorous  dramatic  gesture : 

"Listen!  I  see  it  all— down,  down  even  to  the  stays! 
Such  stays!  Six  eight  a  pair,  Polly,  with  red  flannel — or  list, 
is  it? — that  they  put  into  the  tops  of  those  fearful  things.  I 
can  draw  you  a  picture  of  them." 

**Lucy,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  waving  your  arms 
about  in  that  idiotic  manner  I  Recollect,  every  one  can  see 
you  from  the  Mall." 

*^Let  them  see!  They'll  think  I  am  rehearsing  for  *The 
Fallen  Angel.'  Look!  There's  The  Mussuck.  How  badly 
he  rides.     There!" 

She  blew  a  kiss  to  the  venerable  Indian  administrator 
with  infinite  grace. 

*'Now,"  she  continued,  *' he'll  be  chaffed  about  that  at  the 
Club  in  the  deHcate  manner  those  brutes  of  men  affect,  and 


618  U/orl^s  of  F^aiyard  t^iplip^ 

the  Hawley  Boy  will  tell  me  all  about  it — softening  the  de* 
tails  for  fear  of  shocking  me.  That  boy  is  too  good  to  hve, 
Polly.  I've  serious  thoughts  of  recommending  him  to  throw 
up  his  commission  and  go  into  the  Church.  In  his  present 
frame  of  mind  he  would  obey  me.     Happy,  happy  child!" 

"Never  again,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  an  affectation  of 
indignation,  "shall  you  tiffin  here!  'Lucindy,  your  behavior 
is  scand'lus.'  " 

"All  your  fault,"  retorted  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  "for  suggest- 
ing such  a  thing  as  my  abdication.  !N"o !  Jamais-Nevaire ! 
I  win  act,  dance,  ride,  frivol,  talk  scandal,  dine  out,  and 
appropriate  the  legitimate  captives  of  any  woman  I  choose, 
until  I  d-r-r-rop,  or  a  better  woman  than  I  puts  me  to  shame 
before  all  Simla  ...  and  it's  dust  and  ashes  in  my  mouth 
while  I'm  doing  it!" 

She  dashed  into  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Mallowe  fol- 
lowed and  put  an  arm  round  her  waist. 

"I'm  notP^  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  defiantly,  rummaging 
in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  for  her  handkerchief.  "I've  been 
dining  out  for  the  last  ten  nights,  and  rehearsing  in  the  after- 
noon. You'd  be  tired  yourself.  It's  only  because  I'm 
tired." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  did  not  at  once  overwhelm  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
with  spoken  pity  or  ask  her  to  lie  down.  She  knew  her  friend 
too  well.  Handing  her  another  cup  of  tea,  she  went  on  with 
the  conversation. 

"I've  been  through  that  too,  dear,"  she  said. 

"I  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  a  gleam  of  fun  oi^ 
her  face.  "In  '84,  wasn't  it?  You  went  out  a  great  deal 
less  next  season." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  smiled  in  a  superior  and  sphinx-like  fashion. 

"I  became  an  Influence,"  said  she. 

"Good  gracious,  child,  you  didn't  join  the  Theosophists 
and  kiss  Buddha's  big  toe,  did  you?  I  tried  to  get  into  their 
set  once,  but  they  cast  me  out  for  a  skeptic — without  a  chance 
of  improving  my  poor  little  mind,  too." 

"!N"o,  I  didn't  Theosophilander.     Jack  says — " 


Upder  tl^e  Deodars  319 

"Never  mind  Jack.  What  a  husband  says  is  not  of  the 
least  importance.     What  did  you  do?" 

'' I  made  a  lasting  impression. " 

"So  have  I — for  four  months.  But  that  didn't  console  me 
in  the  least,  I  hated  the  man.  Will  you  stop  smiling  in 
that  inscrutable  way  and  tell  me  what  you  mean?" 

Mrs.  Mallowe  told. 
•  .  ..•«  •  *  « 

"And — you — mean — to — say  that  it  is  absolutely  platonic 
on  both  sides?" 

"Absolutely,  or  I  should  never  have  taken  it  up." 

"And  his  last  promotion  was  due  to  you?" 

Mrs.  Mallowe  nodded. 

"And  you  warned  him  against  the  Topsham  girl?" 

Another  nod. 

"And  told  him  of  Sir  Dugald  Delane's  private  Memo, 
about  him?" 

A  third  nod. 

"What  a  question  to  ask  a  woman!  Because  it  amused 
me  at  first.  I  am  proud  of  my  property  now.  If  I  live,  he 
shall  continue  to  be  successful.  Yes,  I  will  put  him  upon  the 
straight  road  to  Knighthood,  and  everything  else  that  a 
man  values.     The  rest  depends  upon  himself." 

"Polly,  you  are  a  most  extraordinary  woman." 

"Not  in  the  least.  I'm  concentrated,  that's  all.  You 
diffuse  yourself,  dear ;  and  though  all  Simla  knows  your  skill 
in  managing  a  Team — ' ' 

"Can't  you  choose  a  prettier  word?" 

"Team,  of  half  a  dozen,  from  The  Mussuck  to  the  Hawley 
Boy,  you  gain  nothing  by  it.     Not  even  amusement." 

"And  you?" 

"Try  my  recipe.  Take  a  man,  not  a  boy,  mind,  but  an 
almost  mature,  unattached  man,  and  be  his  guide,  philoso- 
pher, and  friend.  You'll  find  it  the  most  interesting  occupa- 
tion that  you  ever  embarked  on.  It  can  be  done — you  needn  't 
look  like  that — because  I've  done  it." 


820  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  K^plip^ 

"There's  an  element  of  danger  about  it  that  makes  the 
notion  attractive.  I'll  get  such  a  man  and  say  to  him: 
^IsTow  there  must  be  no  flirtation.  Do  exactly  what  I  tell 
you,  profit  by  my  instruction  and  counsels,  and  all  will  yet 
be  well,'  as  Toole  says.     Is  that  the  idea?" 

"More  or  less,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  with  an  iinfathom- 
able  smile.  "But  be  sure  he  understands  that  there  must  be 
no  flirtation." 


n 

SHOWING    WHAT    WAS    BORN    OF    THE    GREAT   IDEA 

Dribble-dribble— trickle-trickle— 

What  a  lot  of  raw  dust  I 
My  dollie*s  had  an  accident 

And  out  came  all  the  sawdust! 

—Nursery  Rhyme 

So  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  in  "The  Foundry"  which  overlooks 
Simla  MaU,  sat  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Mallowe  and  gathered 
wisdom.  The  end  of  the  Conference  was  the  Great  Idea 
upon  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  so  plumed  herself. 

"I  warn  you,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  beginning  to  repent  of 
her  suggestion,  "that  the  matter  is  not  haK  so  easy  as  it 
looks.  Any  woman — even  the  Topsham  girl- — can  catch  a 
man,  but  very,  very  few  know  how  to  manage  him  when 
captured." 

**My  child,"  was  the  answer,  "I've  been  a  female  St. 
Simon  Stylites  looking  down  upon  men  for  these— these  years 
past.     Ask  The  Mussuck  whether  I  can  manage  them." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  departed  humming:  "I'll  go  to  him  and 
oay  to  him  in  manner  most  ironical."  Mrs.  Mallowe  laughed 
to  herself.  Then  she  grew  suddenly  sober.  "I  wonder 
whether  I've  done  well  in  advising  that  amusement?  Lucy's 
a  clever  woman,  but  a  thought  too  mischievous  where  a  man 
is  concerned." 

A  week  later,  the  two  met  at  a  Monday  Pop.  "Well?" 
said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 


I 


llT)der  tl^e  Deodars  321 

"I've  caught  him!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  Her  eyes  were 
dancing  with  merriment. 

"Who  is  it,  you  mad  woman?  I'm  sorry  I  ever  spoke 
to  you  about  it." 

"Look  between  the  pillars.  In  the  third  row;  fourth 
from  the  end.     You  can  see  his  face  now.     Look!" 

"Otis  Yeere!  Of  all  the  improbable  people!  I  don't 
believe  you." 

"Hush!  Wait  till  Mrs.  Tarkass  begins  murdering  Milton 
Wellings,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  S-s-ssI  There  we 
are.  That  woman's  voice  always  reminds  me  of  an  Under- 
ground train  coming  into  Earl's  Court  with  the  brakes  down. 
InTow  listen.     It  is  really  Otis  Yeere." 

"So  I  see,  but  it  doesn't  follow  that  he  is  your  prop- 
erty . ' ' 

"He  is!  By  right  of  trove,  as  the  barristers  say.  I 
found  him,  lonely  and  unbefriended,  the  very  next  night 
after  our  talk,  at  the  Dugald  Delano's  burra-khana.  I  liked 
his  eyes,  and  I  talked  to  him.  Next  day  he  called.  Next 
day  we  went  for  a  ride  together,  and  to-day  he's  tied  to  my 
'rickshaw-wheels  hand  and  foot.  You'll  see  when  the  con- 
cert's over.     He  doesn't  know  I'm  here  yet." 

' '  Thank  goodness  you  haven't  chosen  a  boy.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  him,  assuming  that  you've  got  him?" 

"Assuming,  indeed!  Does  a  woman — do  I — ever  make  a 
mistake  in  that  sort  of  thing?  First" — Mrs.  Hauksbee  ticked 
off  the  items  ostentatiously  on  her  daintily  gloved  fingers— 
"First,  my  dear,  I  shall  dress  him  properly.  At  present  his 
raiment  is  a  disgrace,  and  he  wears  a  dress-shirt  hke  a 
crumpled  sheet  of  the  'Pioneer.'  Secondly,  after  I  have 
made  him  presentable,  I  shall  form  his  manners — his  morals 
are  above  reproach." 

"You  seem  to  have  discovered  a  great  deal  about  him 
considering  the  shortness  of  your  acquaintance." 

"Surely  you  ought  to  know  that  the  first  proof  a  man 
gives  of  his  interest  in  a  woman  is  by  talking  to  her  about 
his  own  sweet  self.     If  the  woman  listens  without  yawniag. 


322  II/orKs  of  I^udyard  l^iplip^ 

lie  begins  to  Kke  her.  If  slie  flatters  the  animal's  vanity,  he 
ends  by  adoring  her." 

"In  some  cases." 

**  Never  mind  the  exceptions.  I  know  which  one  you  are 
thinking  of.  Thirdly,  and  lastly,  after  he  is  poHshed  and 
made  pretty,  I  shall,  as  you  said,  be  his  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend,  and  he  shall  become  a  success— as  great  a  success 
as  your  friend.  I  always  wondered  how  that  man  got  on. 
Did  The  Mussuck  come  to  you  with  the  Civil  List,  and,  drop- 
ping on  one  knee— no,  two  knees,  tb  la  Gibbon — hand  it  to 
you  and  say;  *  Adorable  angel,  choose  your  friend's  appoint- 
ment?' " 

* '  Lucy,  your  long  experiences  of  the  Military  Department 
have  demoralized  you.  One  doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing  on 
the  Civil  Side." 

*'No  disrespect  meant  to  *  Jack's  Service,'  my  dear.  I 
only  asked  for  information.  Give  me  three  months,  and  see 
what  changes  I  shall  work  in  my  prey." 

"Go  your  own  way  since  you  must.  But  I'm  sorry  that 
I  was  weak  enough  to  suggest  the  amusement." 

'*  'I  am  aU  discretion,  and  may  be  trusted  to  an  in-finite 
extent,'  "  quoted  Mrs.  Hauksber  from  **The  Fallen  Angel"; 
and  the  conversation  ceased  with  Mrs.  Tarkass's  last  long- 
drawn  war-whoop. 

Her  bitterest  enemies — and  she  had  many — could  hardly 
accuse  Mrs.  Hauksbee  of  wasting  her  time.  Otis  Yeere  was 
one  of  those  wandering  "dumb"  characters,  foredoomed 
through  Hfe  to  be  "nobody's  property."  Ten  years  in  Her 
Majesty's  Bengal  Civil  Service,  spent,  for  the  most  part,  in 
undesirable  Districts,  had  dowered  him  with  little  to  be  proud 
of,  and  nothing  to  give  confidence.  Old  enough  to  have  lost 
the  "first  fine  careless  rapture"  that  showers  on  the  immature 
'Stunt  imaginary  Commissionerships  and  Stars,  and  sends 
him  into  the  collar  with  coltish  earnestness  and  abandon;  too 
young  to  be  yet  able  to  look  back  upon  the  progress  he  had 
made,  and  thank  Providence  that  under  the  conditions  of  to- 
day he  had  come  even  so  far,  he  stood  upon  the  "dead-center" 


Upder  tl^e  Deodars  323 

of  his  career.  And  when  a  man  stands  still,  he  feels  the 
slightest  impulse  from  without.  Fortune  had  ruled  that 
Otis  Yeere  should  be,  for  the  first  part  of  his  service,  one  of 
the  rank  and  file  who  are  ground  up  in  the  wheels  of  the 
Administration,  losing  heart  and  soul,  and  mind  and  strength, 
in  the  process.  Until  steam  replaces  manual  power  in  the 
working  of  the  Empire,  there  must  always  be  this  percentage 
— must  always  be  the  men  who  are  used  up,  expended,  in  the 
mere  mechanical  routine.  For  these  promotion  is  far  off,  and 
the  mill-grind  of  every  day  very  near  and  instant.  The  Sec- 
retariats know  them  only  by  name ;  they  are  not  the  picked 
men  of  the  Districts  with  the  Divisions  and  Collectorates 
awaiting  them.  They  are  simply  the  rank  and  file — the  food 
for  fever — sharing  with  the  ryot  and  the  plow-bullock  the 
honor  of  being  the  plinth  on  which  the  State  rests.  The  older 
ones  have  lost  their  aspirations;  the  younger  are  putting 
theirs  aside  with  a  sigh.  Both  learn  to  endure  patiently  until 
the  end  of  the  day.  Twelve  years  in  the  rank  and  file,  men 
say,  will  sap  the  hearts  of  the  bravest  and  dull  the  wits  of 
the  most  keen. 

Out  of  this  life  Otis  Yeere  had  fled  for  a  few  months, 
drifting,  for  the  sake  of  a  Httle  mascuhne  society,  into  Simla. 
When  his  leave  was  over  he  would  return  to  his  swampy, 
sour-green,  undermanned  district,  the  native  Assistant,  the 
native  Doctor,  the  native  Magistrate,  the  steaming,  swelter- 
ing Station,  the  ill-kempt  City,  and  the  undisguised  insolence 
of  the  Municipality  that  babbled  away  the  lives  of  men. 
Life  was  cheap,  however.  The  soil  spawned  humanity,  as  it 
bred  frogs  in  the  Rains,  and  the  gap  of  the  sickness  of  one 
season  was  filled  to  overflowing  by  the  fecundity  of  the  next, 
Otis  was  unfeignedly  thankful  to  lay  down  his  work  for  a 
little  while  and  escape  from  the  seething,  whining,  weakly 
hive,  impotent  to  help  itself,  but  strong  in  its  power  to  cripple, 
thwart,  and  annoy  the  weary-eyed  man  who,  by  official  irony, 
was  said  to  be  "in  charge"  of  it. 

"I  knew  there  were  women-dowdies  in  Bengal.     They 


324  ^  U/orKs  of  I^udyard  l^iplip^J 

come  up  here  sometimes.  But  I  didn't  know  that  there  were 
men-dowdies,  too." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  Otis  Yeere  that  his 
clothes  were  rather  ancestral  in  appearance.  It  will  be  seen 
from  the  above  that  his  friendship  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had 
made  great  strides. 

As  that  lady  truthfully  says,  a  man  is  never  so  happy  as 
when  he  is  talking  about  himself.  From  Otis  Yeere's  lips 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  before  long,  learned  everything  that  she 
wished  to  know  about  the  subject  of  her  experiment ;  learned 
what  manner  of  life  he  had  led  in  what  she  vaguely  called 
** those  awful  cholera  districts";  learned,  too,  but  this  knowl- 
edge came  later,  what  manner  of  life  he  had  purposed  to 
lead,  and  what  dreams  he  had  dreamed  in  the  year  of  grace 
'77,  before  the  reality  had  knocked  the  heart  out  of  him. 
Very  pleasant  are  the  shady  bridle-paths  round  Prospect  Hill 
for  the  telling  of  confidences. 

'^Kot  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  Mrs.  Mallowe.  "l^ot 
yet.  I  must  wait  until  the  man  is  properly  dressed,  at  least. 
Great  heavens,  is  it  possible  that  he  doesn't  know  what  an 
honor  it  is  to  be  taken  up  by  MeP"* 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  did  not  reckon  false  modesty  as  one  of  her 
failings. 

"Always  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee!"  murmured  Mrs.  Mal- 
lowe, with  her  sweetest  smile,  to  Otis.  "Oh,  you  men,  you 
men!  Here  are  our  Pimjabis  growling  because  you've  mo- 
nopolized the  nicest  woman  in  Simla.  They'll  tear  you  to 
pieces  on  the  Mall,  some  day,  Mr.  Yeere." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  rattled  down-hill,  ha^dng  satisfied  herself, 
by  a  glance  through  the  fringe  of  her  sunshade,  of  the  effect 
of  her  words. 

The  shot  went  home.  Of  a  surety  Otis  Yeere  was  some- 
body in  this  bewildering  whirl  of  Simla.  'Had  monopolized 
the  nicest  woman  in  it,  and  the  Punjabis  were  growling. 
The  notion  justified  a  mild  glow  of  vanity.  He  had  never 
regarded  his  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  as  a  matter 
for  general  interest. 


Upder  t}?e  Deodars  325 

The  knowledge  of  envy  was  a  pleasant  feeling  to  the 
man  of  no  account.  It  was  intensified  later  in  the  day  when 
a  luncher  at  the  Club  said  spitefully :  *' Well,  for  a  debilitated 
Ditcher,  Yeere,  you  are  going  it.  Hasn't  any  kind  friend 
told  you  that  she's  the  most  dangerous  woman  in  Simla?" 

Yeere  chuckled  and  passed  out.  When,  oh,  when,  would 
his  new  clothes  be  ready?  He  descended  into  the  Mall  to 
inquire ;  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  coming  over  the  Church  Ridge 
in  her  'rickshaw,  looked  down  upon  him  approvingly.  **He's 
learning  to  carry  himself  as  if  he  were  a  man,  instead  of  a 
piece  of  furniture,  and' ^— she  screwed  up  her  eyes  to  see  the 
better  through  the  sunlight — "he  is  a  man  when  he  holds 
himseK  like  that.  Oh,  blessed  Conceit,  what  should  we  be 
without  you?" 

With  the  new  clothes  came  a  new  stock  of  self-confidence. 
Otis  Yeere  discovered  that  he  could  enter  a  room  without 
breaking  into  a  gentle  perspiration,  and  could  cross  one,  even 
to  talk  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  as  though  rooms  were  meant  to 
be  crossed.  He  was,  for  the  first  time  in  nine  years,  proud 
of  himself,  and  contented  with  his  life,  satisfied  with  his 
new  clothes,  and  rejoicing  in  the  coveted  friendship  of  Mrs. 
Hauksbee. 

*' Conceit  is  what  the  poor  fellow  wants,"  she  said  in  con- 
fidence to  Mrs.  Mallowe.  * 'I  believe  they  must  use  Civilians 
to  plow  the  fields  with  in  Lower  Bengal.  You  see,  I  have 
to  begin  from  the  very  beginning — haven't  I?  But  you'll 
admit,  won't  you,  dear,  that  he  is  immensely  improved  since 
I  took  him  in  hand?  Only  give  me  a  little  more  time  and 
he  won't  know  himself." 

Indeed,  Yeere  was  rapidly  beginning  to  forget  what  he 
had  been.  One  of  his  own  rank  and  file  put  the  matter  tn 
a  nutshell  when  he  asked  Yeere,  in  reference  to  nothing : 
**  And  who  has  been  making  you  a  Member  of  Council,  lately? 
You  carry  the  side  of  half  a  dozen  of  'em." 

*'I — I'm  awf'ly  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  it  you  know,"  said 
Yeere,  apologetically. 

*' There'll  be  no  holding  you,"  continued  the  old  stager, 


2J26  U/orKs  of  l^udyard  i^fplii?*^ 

grimly.  **  Climb  down,  Otis — climb  down,  and  get  all  that 
beastly  affectation  knocked  out  of  you  with  fever !  Three 
thousand  a  month  wouldn't  support  it." 

Yeere  repeated  the  incident  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  He  had 
insensibly  come  to  look  upon  her  as  his  Frau  Confessorin. 

''And  you  apologized!"  she  said.  "Oh,  shame!  1  hate 
a  man  who  apologizes.  !N"ever  apologize  for  what  your  friend 
called 'side.'  Never!  It's  a  man's  business  to  be  insolent 
and  overbearing  until  he  meets  with  a  stronger.  iN'ow,  you 
bad  boy,  listen  to  me." 

Simply  and  straightforwardly,  as  the  'rickshaw  loitered 
round  Jakko,  Mrs.  Hauksbee  preached  to  Otis  Yeere  the 
Great  Gospel  of  Conceit,  illustrating  it  with  living  subjects 
encountered  during  their  Sunday  afternoon  stroll. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  concluded  with  the  personal  argu- 
ment, "you'll  apologize  next  for  being  my  attache?" 

"!N"ever!"  said  Otis  Yeere.  "That's  another  thing  alto- 
gether.    I  shall  always  be — " 

"What's  coming?"  thought  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

" — Proud  of  that,"  said  Otis. 

"Safe  for  the  present,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"But  I'm  afraid  I  have  grown  conceited.  Like  Jeshurun, 
you  know.  When  he  waxed  fat,  then  he  kicked.  It's  the 
having  no  worry  on  one's  mind  and  the  Hill  air,  I  suppose." 

' '  Hill  air,  indeed ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  herself.  ' ' He'd 
have  been  hiding  in  the  Club  till  the  last  day  of  his  leave,  if 
I  hadn't  discovered  him. ' '     Then  aloud : 

"Why  shouldn't  you  be?     You  have  every  right  to." 

"I!     Why?" 

"Oh,  hundreds  of  things.  I'm  not  going  to  waste  this 
lovely  afternoon  by  explaining ;  but  I  know  you  have.  What 
was  that  heap  of  manuscript  you  showed  me  about  the  gram- 
mar of  the  aboriginal — what's  their  names?" 

"GuUals.  A  piece  of  nonsense.  I've  far  too  much  work 
to  do  to  bother  over  GuUals  now.  You  should  see  my  Dis- 
trict. Come  down  with  your  husband  some  day  and  I'll 
show  you  round.     Such  a  lovely  place  in  the  Rains !     A  sheet 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  327 

of  water  with  the  railway  embankment  and  the  snakes  stick- 
ing out,  and,  in  the  summer,  green  flies  and  green  squash. 
The  people  would  die  of  fear  if  you  shook  a  dog- whip  at  'em. 
But  they  know  you're  forbidden  to  do  that,  so  they  conspire 
to  make  your  life  a  burden  to  you.  My  District's  worked 
by  some  man  at  Darjiling,  on  the  strength  of  a  pleader's 
false  reports.     Oh,  it's  a  heavenly  place  1" 

Otis  Yeere  laughed  bitterly. 

"There's  not  the  least  necessity  that  you  should  stay  In  it. 
Why  do  you?" 

"Because  I  must.     How'm  I  to  get  out  of  it?" 

"How!  In  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways.  If  there  weren't 
so  many  people  on  the  road,  I'd  like  to  box  your  ears.  Ask, 
my  dear  sir,  ask!  Look!  There  is  young  Hexarly  with  six 
years'  service  and  half  your  talents.  He  asked  for  what  he 
wanted,  and  he  got  it.  See,  down  by  the  Convent !  There's 
McArthurson  who  has  come  to  his  present  position  by  asking 
— sheer,  downright  asking — after  he  had  pushed  himself  out 
of  the  rank  and  file.  One  man  is  as  good  as  another  in  your 
service — believe  me.  I've  seen  Simla  for  more  seasons  than 
I  care  to  think  about.  Do  you  suppose  men  are  chosen  for 
appointments  because  of  their  special  fitness  beforehand 9 
You  have  all  passed  a  high  test — what  do  you  call  it? — in  the 
beginning,  and,  excepting  the  three  or  four  who  have  gone 
altogether  to  the  bad,  you  can  all  work.  Asking  does  the 
rest.  Call  it  cheek,  call  it  insolence,  call  it  anything  you 
hke,  but  ask!  Men  argue — yes,  I  know  what  men  say — that 
a  man,  by  the  mere  audacity  of  his  request,  must  have  some 
good  in  him.  A  weak  man  doesn't  say:  *Give  me  this  and 
that.'  He  whines:  'Why  haven't  I  been  given  this  and 
that?'  If  you  were  in  the  Army,  I  should  say  learn  to  spin 
plates  or  play  a  tambourine  with  your  toes.  As  it  \^—ask! 
You  belong  to  a  Service  that  ought  to  be  able  to  command 
the  Channel  fleet,  or  set  a  leg  at  twenty  minutes'  notice,  and 
yet  you  hesitate  over  asking  to  escape  from  the  squashy  green 
district  where  you  admit  you  are  not  master.  Drop  the  Ben- 
gal Government  altogether.     Even  Darjiling  is  a  little  out- 


328  U/orKs  of  F(udyard  \{ipUT)(^ 

of-the-way  hole.  I  was  there  once,  and  the  rents  were  ex- 
tortionate. Assert  yourself.  Get  the  Government  of  India 
to  take  you  over.  Try  to  get  on  the  Frontier,  where  every 
man  has  a  grand  chance  if  he  can  trust  himself.  Go  some- 
where !  Do  something !  You  have  twice  the  wits  and  three 
times  the  presence  of  the  men  up  here,  and — and"— Mrs. 
Hauksbee  paused  for  breath;  then  continued — "and  in  any 
way  you  look  at  it,  you  ought  to.  You  who  could  go  so 
far!" 

**I  don't  know,"  said  Yeere,  rather  taken  aback  by  the 
unexpected  eloquence.  "I  haven't  such  a  good  opinion  of 
myself." 

It  was  not  strictly  Platonic,  but  it  was  Policy.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  the  ungloved  paw  that 
rested  on  the  turned-back  'rickshaw  hood,  and,  looking  the 
man  full  in  the  face,  said  tenderly,  almost  too  tenderly:  *'/ 
believe  in  you  if  you  mistrust  yourself.  Is  that  enough,  my 
friend?" 

*'It  is  enough,"  answered  Otis,  very  solemnly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  redreaming  the  dreams 
that  he  had  dreamed  eight  years  ago,  but  through  them  all 
ran,  as  sheet-lightning  through  a  golden  cloud,  the  light  of 
Mrs.  Hauksbee's  violet  eyes. 

Curious  and  impenetrable  are  the  mazes  of  Simla  life — - 
the  only  existence  in  this  desolate  land  worth  the  living^ 
Gradually  it  went  abroad  among  men  and  women,  in  the 
pauses  between  dance,  play,  and  Gymkhana,  that  Otis  Yeere, 
the  man  with  the  newly  lighted  light  of  self-confidence  in  his 
eyes,  had  *'done  something  decent"  in  the  wilds  whence  he 
came.  He  had  brought  an  erring  Municipality  to  reason, 
appropriated  the  funds  on  his  own  responsibility,  and  saved 
the  lives  of  hundreds.  He  knew  more  about  the  GuUals 
than  any  hving  man.  'Had  a  vast  knowledge  of  the  aborigi- 
nal tribes ;  was,  in  spite  of  his  juniority,  the  greatest  author- 
ity on  the  aboriginal  GuUals.  ISTo  one  quite  knew  who  or 
what  the  GuUals  were  till  The  Mussuck,  who  had  been  call- 
ing on  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and  prided  himself  upon  picking  peo- 


Uijder  tl?e  Deodars  829 

pie's  braing,  explained  they  were  a  tribe  of  ferocious  Hillmen, 
soraewhere  near  Sikkim,  whose  friendship  even  the  Great 
Indian  Empire  would  find  it  worth  her  while  to  secure.  N"ow 
we  know  that  Otis  Yeere  had  showed  Mrs.  Hauksbee  his 
MS.  notes  of  six  years'  standing  on  these  same  Gullals.  He 
had  told  her,  too,  how,  sick  and  shaken  with  the  fever  their 
negligence  had  bred,  crippled  by  the  loss  of  his  pet  clerk, 
and  savagely  angry  at  the  desolation  in  his  charge,  he  had 
once  damned  the  collective  eyes  of  his  "intelligent  local 
board"  for  a  set  of  haramzadas.  Which  act  of  ** brutal  and 
tyrannous  oppression"  won  him  a  Reprimand  Royal  from, 
the  Bengal  Government;  but  in  the  anecdote  as  amended  for 
Korthern  consumption,  we  find  no  record  of  this.  Hence  we 
are  forced  to  conclude  that  Mrs.  Hauksbee  "edited"  his  remi- 
niscences before  sowing  them  in  idle  ears,  ready,  as  she  well 
knew,  to  exaggerate  good  or  evil.  And  Otis  Yeere  bore 
himseK  as  befitted  the  hero  of  many  tales. 

"You  can  talk  to  me  when  you  don't  fall  into  a  brown 
study.  Talk  now,  and  talk  your  brightest  and  best,"  said 
Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

Otis  needed  no  spur.  Look  to  a  man  who  has  the  coun- 
sel of  a  woman  of  or  above  the  world  to  back  him.  So  long 
as  he  keeps  his  head,  he  can  meet  both  sexes  on  equal  ground 
— an  advantage  never  intended  by  Providence,  who  fashioned 
Man  on  one  day  and  Woman  on  another,  in  sign  that  neither 
should  know  more  than  a  very  little  of  the  other's  Hfe.  Such 
a  man  goes  far,  or,  the  counsel  being  withdrawn,  collapses 
suddenly  while  his  world  seeks  the  reason. 

Generaled  by  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  who,  again,  had  all  Mrs. 
Mallowe's  wisdom  at  her  disposal,  proud  of  himself,  and,  in 
the  end,  believing  in  himself  because  he  was  believed  in,  Otis 
Yeere  stood  ready  for  any  f ortime  that  might  befall,  certain 
that  it  would  be  good.  He  would  fight  for  his  own  hand, 
and  intended  that  this  second  struggle  should  lead  to  better 
issue  than  the  first  helpless  surrender  of  the  bewildered 
'Stunt. 

What  might  have  happened,  it  is  impossible  to  say.     This 


330  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  li{lpUT)(^ 

lamentable  thing  befell,  bred  directly  by  a  statement  of  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  that  she  would  spend  the  next  season  in  Darjiling. 

*'Are  you  certain  of  that?"  said  Otis  Yeere. 

*' Quite.     "We're  writing  about  a  house  now." 

Otis  Yeere  "stopped  dead,"  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee  put  it  in 
discussing  the  relapse  with  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

"He  has  behaved,"  she  said,  angrily,  "just  hke  Captain 
Kerrington's  pony — only  Otis  is  a  donkey — at  the  last  Gym- 
khana. Planted  his  forefeet  and  refused  to  go  on  another 
step.  Polly,  my  man's  going  to  disappoint  me.  "What  shall 
I  do?" 

As  a  rule,  Mrs.  Mallowe  does  not  approve  of  staring,  but 
on  this  occasion  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  utmost. 

"You  have  managed  cleverly  so  far,"  she  said.  "Speak 
to  him,  and  ask  him  what  he  means. ' ' 

"I  will — at  to-night's  dance." 

"No — o,  not  at  a  dance,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  cautiously. 
"Men  are  never  themselves  quite  at  dances.  Better  wait  till 
to-morrow  morning." 

"Nonsense.  If  he's  going  to  revert  in  this  insane  way, 
there  isn't  a  day  to  lose.  Are  you  going?  No !  Then  sit 
up  for  me,  there's  a  dear.  I  shan't  stay  longer  than  supper 
under  any  circumstances." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  waited  through  the  evening,  looking  long 
and  earnestly  into  the  fire,  and  sometimes  smiling  to  herself. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  The  man's  an  idiot!  A  raving,  positive 
idiot!     I'm  sorry  I  ever  saw  him!" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  burst  into  Mrs.  Mallowe's  house,  at  mid- 
night, almost  in  tears. 

"What  in  the  world  has  happened?"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
but  her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  guessed  an  answer. 

"Happened!  Everything  has  happened!  He  was- there. 
I  went  to  him  and  said:  *Now,  what  does  this  nonsense 
mean?'  Don't  laugh,  dear,  I  can't  bear  it.  But  you  know 
what  I  mean  I  said.  Then  it  was  a  square,  and  I  sat  it  out 
with  him  and  wanted  an  explanation,  and  he  said —     Oh!  I 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  331 

hayen't  patience  with,  such  idiots !  You  know  what  I  said 
about  going  to  Darjiling  next  year?  It  doesn't  matter  to  me 
where  I  go.  I'd  have  changed  the  Station  and  lost  the  rent 
to  have  saved  this.  He  said,  in  so  many  words,  that  he 
wasn't  going  to  try  to  work  up  any  more,  because — because 
he  would  be  shifted  into  a  province  away  from  Darjiling,  and 
his  own  District,  where  these  creatures  are,  is  within  a  day's 
journey — " 

"Ah — hh!"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  in  a  tone  of  one  who 
has  successfully  tracked  an  obscure  word  through  a  large 
dictionary. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  mad^ — so  absurd?  And 
he  had  the  ball  at  his  feet.  He  had  only  to  kick  it !  I  would 
have  made  him  anything!  Anything  in  the  wide  world. 
He  could  have  gone  to  the  world's  end.  I  would  have  helped 
him.  I  made  him,  didn't  I,  Polly?  Didn't  I  create  that 
man?  Doesn't  he  owe  everything  to  me?  And  to  reward 
me,  just  when  everything  was  nicely  arranged,  by  this  lunacy 
that  spoiled  everything!" 

"Very  few  men  understand  devotion  thoroughly." 
"Oh,  Polly,  donH  laugh  at  me!     I  give  men  up  from  this 
hour.     I  could  have  killed  him  then  and  there.      What  right 
had  this  man — this  Thing  I  had  picked  out  of  his  filthy  paddy- 
fields — to  make  love  to  me?" 

"He  did  that,  did  he?" 
I       "He  did.     I  don't  remember  half  he  said,  I  was  so  angry. 
I  Oh,  but  such  a  funny  thing  happened !     I  can't  help  laughing 
I  at  it  now,  though  I  felt  nearly  ready  to  cry  with  rage.     He 
I  raved,  and  I  stormed — I'm  afraid  we  must  have  made  an 
i  awful  noise  in  our  kala  juggah.     Protect  my  character,  dear, 
if  it's  all  over  Simla  by  to-morrow — and  then  be  bobbed  for- 
ward in  the  middle  of  this  insanity — I  firmly  believe  the 
man's  demented — 'and  kissed  me." 

* '  Morals  above  reproach, ' '  purred  Mrs.  Mallowe. 
' '  So  they  were — so  they  are !     It  was  the  most  absurd  kiss 
ij.  I  don't  believe  he'd  ever  kissed  a  woman  in  his  life  beforOc 
I  threw  my  head  back,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  slidy,  pecking 


)S> 


^32  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplip^j 

dab,  just  on  the  end  of  tue  chin — here."  Mrs.  Hauksbeet 
tapped  her  rather  masculine  chin  with  her  fan.  "Then,  of 
course,  I  was  furiously  angry,  and  told  him  that  he  was  no 
gentleman,  and  I  was  sorry  I'd  ever  met  him,  and  so  on. 
He  was  crushed  so  easily  that  I  couldn't  be  very  angry. 
Then  I  came  away  straight  to  you." 

*'Was  this  before  or  after  supper?^ 

'Oh !  before— oceans  before.  Isn't  it  perfectly  disgusting?" 

**Let  me  think.  I  withhold  judgment  till  to-morrow. 
Morning  brings  counsel." 

But  morning  brought  only  a  servant  with  a  dainty  bouquet 
of  Annandale  roses  for  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  wear  at  the  dance 
at  Viceregal  Lodge  that  night. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  penitent,"  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
low©.    "What's  the  billet-doux  in  the  center?" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  opened  the  neatly  folded  note — anothei 
accomplishment  that  she  had  taught  Otis — read  it,  and 
groaned  tragically. 

'  *  Last  wreck  of  a  feeble  intellect !  Poetry !  Is  it  his.  own,i 
do  you  think?  Oh,  that  I  ever  built  my  hopes  on  such  ai 
maudlin  idiot!" 

"No.  It's  a  quotation  from  Mrs.  Browning,  and,  in  view 
of  the  facts  of  the  case,  as  Jack  says,  uncommonly  well 
chosen.     Listen : 

**  *  Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart — 
Pass!     There's  a  world  full  of  men; 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art. 
Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

**  'Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware — 
Malice  not  one  can  impute; 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there, 
In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot?'  " 


"I  didn't— I  didn't~I  didn't!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  an- 
grily, her  eyes  filling  with  tears;  "there  was  no  malice  a1 
all.     Oh,  it's  too  vexatious!" 

"You've  misunderstood  the  compliment,"  said  Mrs.  MaL 


I 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  333 

lowe.  "He  clears  you  completely,  and — ahem! — I  should 
think  by  this  that  he  has  cleared  completely,  too.  My  ex- 
perience of  men  is  that  when  they  begin  to  quote  poetry,  thej^ 
are  going  to  flit.  Like  swans  singing  before  they  die,  you 
know." 

"Polly,  you  take  my  sorrows  in  a  most  unfeehng  way." 
"Do  I?     Is  it  so  terrible?     If  he's  hurt  your  vanity,  I 
should  say  that  you've  done  a  certain  amount  of  damage  to 
his  heart." 

"Oh,  you  can  never  tell  about  a  manP*  said  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee,  with  deep  scorn. 

•  ••••••• 

Reviewing  the  matter  as  an  impartial  outsider,  it  strikes 
me  that  I'm  about  the  only  person  who  has  profited  by  the 
education  of  Otis  Yeere.  It  comes  to  twenty-seven  pages 
and  bittook. 


AT   THE    PIT'S    MOUTH 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tide — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it  He  knows  all. 

But  in  mine  ear  will  aye  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall, 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  me, 

That  in  the  dark  rang,  **Enderby." 

—Jean  Ingelow 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  Man  and  his  Wife  and  a 
Tertium  Quid. 

All  three  were  unwise,  but  the  "Wife  was  the  unwisest. 
The  Man  should  have  looked  after  his  "Wife,  who  should  have 
avoided  the  Tertium  Quid,  who,  again,  should  have  married 
a  wife  of  his  own,  after  clean  and  open  flirtations,  to  which 
nobody  can  possibly  object,  round  Jakko  or  Observatory  Hill. 
When  you  see  a  young  man  with  his  pony  in  a  white  lather, 
and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  flying  down-hill  at  fifteen 
miles  an  hour  to  meet  a  girl  who  will  be  properly  surprised 


334  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  K^plii}^ 

to  meet  tdm,  you  naturally  approve  of  that  young  man,  and: 
wish  Viim  Staff  appomtments,  and  take  an  mterest  m  his  wel- 
fare, and  as  the  proper  time  comes,  give  him  sugar-tongs  on 
side-saddles,  according  to  your  means  and  generosity. 

The  Tertium  Quid  flew  down-hill  on  horseback,  but  it  was 
to  meet  the  Man's  Wife;  and  when  he  flew  up-hill  it  was  fori 
the  same  end.  The  Man  was  in  the  Plains,  earning  money 
for  his  "Wife  to  spend  on  dresses  and  four-hundred-rupee' 
bracelets,  and  inexpensive  luxuries  of  that  kind.  He  worked- 
very  hard,  and  sent  her  a  letter  or  post-card  daily.  She  alsoi 
wrote  to  him  daily,  and  said  that  she  was  longing  for  him  to) 
come  up  to  Simla.  The  Tertium  Quid  used  to  lean  over  her: 
shoulder  and  laugh  as  she  wrote  the  notes.  Then  the  twoi 
would  ride  to  the  post-office  together. 

Now,  Simla  is  a  strange  place,  and  its  customs  are  pecuHar ; 
nor  is  any  man  who  has  not  spent  at  least  ten  seasons  there 
qualified  to  pass  judgment  on  circumstantial  evidence,  which  i 
is  the  most  untrustworthy  in  the  Courts.  For  these  reasons, 
and  for  others  which  need  not  appear,  I  decline  to  state  posi- 
tively whether  there  was  anything  irretrievably  wrong  in  the 
relations  between  the  Man's  Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid.  If 
there  was,  and  hereon  you  must  form  your  own  opinion,  it 
was  the  Man's  Wife's  fault.  She  was  kittenish  in  her  man- 
ners, wearing  generally  an  air  of  soft  and  fluffy  innocence. 
But  she  was  deadly  learned  and  evil-instructed;  and,  now 
and  again,  when  the  mask  dropped,  men  saw  this,  shuddered, 
and — -almost  drew  back.  Men  are  occasionally  particular, 
and  the  least  particular  men  are  always  the  most  exacting. 

Simla  is  eccentric  in  its  fashion  of  treating  friendships.. 
Certain  attachments  which  have  set  and  crystallized  through 
half  a  dozen  seasons  acquire  almost  the  sanctity  of  the  mar- 
riage bond,  and  are  revered  as  such.  Again,  certain  attach- 
ments equally  old,  and,  to  all  appearance,  equally  venerable, 
never  seem  to  win  any  recognized  official  status;  while  a 
chance-sprung  acquaintance,  not  two  months  old,  steps  into 
the  place  which  by  right  belongs  to  the  senior.  There  is  no 
law  reducible  to  print  which  regulates  these  affairs. 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  335 

Some  people  have  a  gift  which  secures  them  infinite  tolera- 
tion, and  others  have  not.  The  Man's  Wife  had  not.  If  she 
looked  over  the  garden  wall,  for  instance,  women  taxed  her 
with  stealing  their  husbands.  She  complained  pathetically 
that  she  was  not  allowed  to  choose  her  own  friends.  When 
she  put  up  her  big  white  muff  to  her  hps,  and  gazed  over  it 
and  under  her  eyebrows  at  you  as  she  said  this  thing,  you 
felt  that  she  had  been  infamously  misjudged,  and  that  all  the 
other  women's  instincts  were  all  wrong;  which  was  absurd. 
She  was  not  allowed  to  own  the  Tertium  Quid  in  peace ;  and 
was  so  strangely  constructed  that  she  would  net  have  enjoyed 
peace  had  she  been  so  permitted.  She  preferred  some  sem- 
blance of  intrigue  to  cloak  even  her  most  commonplace  actions. 

After  two  months  of  riding,  first  round  Jakko,  then 
Elysium,  then  Summer  Hill,  then  Observatory  Hill,  then 
under  Jutogh,  and  lastly  up  and  down  the  Cart  Road  as  far 
as  the  Tara  Devi  gap  in  the  dusk,  she  said  to  the  Tertium 
Quid:  "Frank,  people  say  we  are  too  much  together,  and 
people  are  so  horrid." 

The  Tertium  Quid  pulled  his  mustache,  and  replied  that 
horrid  people  were  unworthy  of  the  consideration  of  nice 
people. 

*'But  they  have  done  more  than  talk — they  have  written 
— written  to  my  hubby — I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  the  Man's 
Wife ;  and  she  pulled  a  letter  from  her  husband  out  of  her 
saddle-pocket  and  gave  it  to  the  Tertium  Quid. 

It  was  an  honest  letter,  written  by  an  honest  man,  then 
stewing  in  the  Plains  on  two  hundred  rupees  a  month  (for  he 
allowed  his  wife  eight  hundred  and  fifty),  and  in  a  silk  banian 
and  cotton  trousers.  It  said  that,  perhaps,  she  had  not 
thought  of  the  unwisdom  of  allowing  her  name  to  be  so  gen- 
erally coupled  with  the  Tertium  Quid's;  that  she  was  too 
much  of  a  child  to  understand  the  dangers  of  that  sort  of 
thing;  that  he,  her  husband,  was  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  interfere  jealously  with  her'  little  amusements  and  inter- 
ests, but  that  it  would  be  better  were  she  to  drop  the  Tertium 
Quid  quietly  and  for  her  husband's  sake.     The  letter  was 


336  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  K^plii)(J 

sweetened  with  many  pretty  little  pet  names,  and  it  amused 
the  Tertium  Quid  considerably.  He  and  She  laughed  over 
it,  so  that  you,  fifty  yards  away,  could  see  their  shoulders 
shaking  while  the  horses  slouched  along  side  by  side. 

Their  conversation  was  not  worth  reporting.  The  upshot 
of  it  was  that,  next  day,  no  one  saw  the  Man's  Wife  and  the 
Tertium  Quid  together.  They  had  both  gone  down  to  the 
Cemetery,  which,  as  a  rule,  is  only  visited  oflQcially  by  the 
inhabitants  of  Simla. 

A  Simla  funeral  with  the  clergyman  riding,  the  mourners 
riding,  and  the  coffin  creaking  as  it  swuigs  between  the 
bearers,  is  one  of  the  most  depressing  things  on  this  earth, 
particularly  when  the  procession  passes  under  the  wet,  dank 
dip  beneath  the  Rockcliffe  Hotel,  where  the  sun  is  shut  out, 
and  all  the  hill  streams  are  wailing  and  weeping  together  as 
they  go  down  the  valleys. 

Occasionally,  folk  tend  the  graves;  but  we  in  India  shift 
and  are  transferred  so  often  that,  at  the  end  of  the  second 
year,  the  Dead  have  no  friends — only  acquaintances  who  are 
far  too  busy  amusing  themselves  up  the  hill  to  attend  to  old 
partners.  The  idea  of  using  a  Cemetery  as  a  rendezvous  is 
distinctly  a  feminine  one.  A  man  would  have  said  simply : 
**Let  people  talk.  We'll  go  down  the  Mall."  A  woman  is 
made  differently,  especially  if  she  be  such  a  woman  as  the 
Man's  Wife.  She  and  the  Tertium  Quid  enjoyed  each  other's 
society  among  the  graves  of  men  and  women  that  they  had 
known  and  danced  with  aforetime 

They  used  to  take  a  big  horse  blanket  and  sit  on  the  grass 
a  little  to  the  left  of  the  lower  end,  where  there  is  a  dip  in  the 
ground,  and  where  the  occupied  graves  die  out  and  the  ready- 
made  ones  a/e  not  ready.  Any  self-respecting  Indian  Ceme- 
tery keeps  half  a  dozen  graves  permanently  open  for  contin- 
gencies and  incidental  wear  and  tear.  In  the  Hills  these  are 
more  usually  baby's  size,  because  children  who  come  up 
weakened  and  sick  from  the  Plains  often  succumb  to  the 
effects  of  the  Rains  in  the  Hills,  or  get  pneumonia  from  their 
ayahs  taking  them  through  damp  pine-woods  after  the  sun 


tlT)der  tl?e  Deodars  337 

has  set.  In  Cantonments,  of  course,  the  man's  size  is  more 
in  request,  these  arrangements  varying  with  the  cHmate  and 
population. 

One  day  when  the  Man's  Wife  and  the  Tertium  Quid  had 
just  arrived  in  the  Cemeteryj  they  saw  some  coohes  breaking 
ground.  They  had  marked  out  a  full-sLzed  grave,  and  the 
Tertium  Quid  asked  them  whether  any  Sahib  was  sick.  They 
said  that  they  did  not  know;  but  it  was  an  order  that  they 
should  dig  a  Sahib's  grave. 

^' Work  away,"  said  the  Tertium  Quid,  "and  let's  see  how 
it's  done." 

The  coolies  worked  away,  and  the  Man's  Wife  and  the 
Tertium  Quid  watched  and  talked  for  a  couple  of  hours  while 
the  grave  was  being  deepened.  Then  a  coolie,  taking  the 
earth  in  baskets  as  it  was  thrown  up,  jumped  over  the  grave. 

** That's  queer,"  said  the  Tertium  Quid.  "Where's  my 
ulster?" 

"What's  queer?"  said  the  Man's  Wife. 

"I  have  got  a  chill  down  my  back — ^just  as  if  a  goose  had 
walked  over  my  grave." 

"Why  do  you  look  at  the  horror,  then?"  said  the  Man's 
Wife.     "Let  us  go." 

The  Tertium  Quid  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  and 
stared  without  answering  for  a  space.  Then  he  said,  drop- 
ping a  pebble  down:  "It  is  nasty — and  cold:  horribly  cold. 
I  don't  think  I  shall  come  to  the  Cemetery  any  more.  I 
don't  think  grave-digging  is  cheerful." 

The  two  talked  and  agreed  that  the  Cemetery  was  depress- 
ing.. They  also  arranged  for  a  ride  next  day  out  from  the 
Cemetery  through  the  Mashobra  Tunnel  up  to  Fagoo  and 
back,  because  all  the  world  was  going  to  a  garden-party  at 
Viceregal  Lodge,  and  all  the  people  of  Mashobra  would 
go  too. 

Coming  up  the  Cemetery  road,  the  Tertium  Quid's  horse 
tried  to  bolt  up-hill,  being  tired  with  standing  so  long,  and 
managed  to  strain  a  back  sinew. 

"I  shall  have  to  take  the  mare  to-morrow,'*  said  the 
Vol.  3.  15 


338  U/or^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplip^ 

Tertium  Quid,  **and  she  will  stand  nothing  heavier  than  a 
snaffle." 

They  made  their  arrangements  to  meet  in  the  Cemetery, 
after  allowing  all  the  Mashobra  people  time  to  pass  into 
Simla.  That  night  it  rained  heavily,  and,  next  day,  when 
the  Tertium  Quid  came  to  the  trysting-place,  he  saw  that 
the  new  grave  had  a  foot  of  water  in  it,  the  ground  being 
a  tough  and  sour  clay. 

"Jove!  That  looks  beastly,"  said  the  Tertium  Quid. 
*' Fancy  being  boarded  up  and  dropped  into  that  well!" 

They  then  started  off  to  Fagoo,  the  mare  playing  with 
the  snaffle  and  picking  her  way  as  though  she  were  shod 
with  satin,  and  the  sun  shining  divinely.  The  road  below 
Mashobra  to  Fagoo  is  officially  styled  the  Himalayan-Thibet 
Road ;  but  in  spite  of  its  name  it  is  not  much  more  than  six 
feet  wide  in  most  places,  and  the  drop  into  the  valley  below 
may  be  anything  between  one  and  two  thousand  feet. 

"^ow  we're  going  to  Thibet,"  said  the  Man's  "Wife, 
merrily,  as  the  horses  drew  near  to  Fagoo.  She  was  riding 
on  the  cliff-side. 

'^Into  Thibet,'*  said  the  Tertium  Quid,  "ever  so  far  from 
people  who  say  horrid  things,  and  hubbys  who  write  stupid 
letters.     "With  you — to  the  end  of  the  world!" 

A  coolie  carrying  a  log  of  wood  came  round  a  corner,  and 
the  mare  went  wide  to  avoid  him— forefeet  in  and  hunches 
out,  as  a  sensible  mare  should  go. 

"To  the  world's  end,"  said  the  Man's  Wife,  and  looked 
unspeakable  things  over  her  near  shoulder  at  the  Tertium 
Quid. 

He  was  smiling,  but,  while  she  looked,  the  smile  froze 
stiff,  as  it  were,  on  his  face,  and  changed  to  a  nervous  grin 
— the  sort  of  grin  men  wear  when  they  are  not  quite  easy  in 
their  saddles.  The  mare  seemed  to  be  sinking  by  the  stern, 
and  her  nostrils  cracked  while  she  was  trying  to  realize  what 
was  happening.  The  rain  of  the  previous  night  had  rotted 
the  drop-side  of  the  Himalayan-Thibet  Road,  and  it  was  giv- 
ing way  under  her.     "What  are  you  doing?"  said  the  Man's 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  339 

Wife.  The  Tertium  Quid  gave  no  answer.  He  grinned 
nervously  and  set  his  spurs  into  the  mare,  who  rapped  with 
her  forefeet  on  the  road,  and  the  struggle  began.  The  Man's 
"Wife  screamed:  **0h,  Frank,  get  off!" 

But  the  Tertium  Quid  was  glued  to  the  saddle — his  face 
blue  and  white — and  he  looked  into  the  Man's  Wife's  eyes. 
Then  the  Man's  "Wife  clutched  at  the  mare's  head  and  caught 
her  by  the  nose  instead  of  the  bridle.  The  brute  threw  up 
her  head  and  went  down  with  a  scream,  the  Tertium  Quid 
upon  her,  and  the  nervous  grin  still  set  on  his  face. 

-  The  Man's  Wife  heard  the  tinkle-tinkle  of  little  stones 
and  loose  earth  falling  off  the  roadway,  and  the  sliding  roar 
of  the  man  and  horse  going  down.  Then  everything  was 
quiet,  and  she  called  on  Frank  to  leave  his  mare  and  walk 
up.  But  Frank  did  not  answer.  He  was  underneath  the 
mare,  nine  hundred  feet  below,  spoiling  a  patch  of  Indian 
com. 

As  the  revelers  came  back  from  Viceregal  Lodge  in  the 
mists  of  the  evening,  they  met  a  temporarily  insane  woman, 
on  a  temporarily  mad  horse,  swinging  round  the  comers, 
with  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  open,  and  her  head  like  the 
head  of  a  Medusa.  She  was  stopped  by  a  man  at  the  risk  of 
his  life,  and  taken  out  of  the  saddle,  a  limp  heap,  and  put 
on  the  bank  to  explain  herself.  This  wasted  twenty  minutes, 
and  then  she  was  sent  home  in  a  lady's  'rickshaw,  still  with 
her  mouth  open  and  her  hands  picking  at  her  riding-gloves. 

She  was  in  bed  for  the  following  three  days,  which  were 
rainy;  so  she  missed  attending  the  funeral  of  the  Tertium 
Quid,  who  was  lowered  into  eighteen  inches  of  water,  instead 
of  the  twelve  to  which  he  had  first  objected. 


340  U/orKs  of  I^adyard  t^iplip^ 


A    WAYSIDE   COMEDY 

Because  to  every  purpose  there  is  time  and  judgment ;  therefore 
the  misery  of  man  is  great  upon  him. — Eccl.  viii.  6 

Fate  and  the  Government  of  India  have  turned  the  Sta- 
tion of  Kashima  into  a  prison ;  and,  because  there  is  no  help 
for  the  poor  souls  who  are  now  lying  there  in  torment,  I 
write  this  story,  praying  that  the  Government  of  India  may 
be  moved  to  scatter  the  European  population  to  the  four 
winds. 

Kashima  is  bounded  on  all  sides  by  the  rock-tipped  circle 
of  the  Dosehri  hills.  In  Spring,  it  is  ablaze  with  roses ;  in 
Summer,  the  roses  die  and  the  hot  winds  blow  from  the  hills ; 
in  Autumn,  the  white  mists  from  the  jhils  cover  the  place  as 
with  water,  and  in  Winter  the  frosts  nip  everything  young 
and  tender  to  earth  level.  There  is  but  one  view  in  Kashima 
— that  of  a  stretch  of  perfectly  flat  pasture  and  plow-land, 
running  up  to  the  gray-blue  scrub  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

There  are  no  amusements  except  snipe  and  tiger  shooting ; 
but  the  tigers  have  been  long  since  hunted  from  their  lairs 
in  the  rock-caves,  and  the  snipe  only  come  once  a  year.  Kar- 
karra — one  hundred  and  forty-three  miles  by  road — is  the 
nearest  station  to  Kashima.  But  Kashima  never  goes  to 
Narkarra,  where  there  are  at  least  twelve  EngHsh  people. 
It  stays  within  the  circle  of  the  Dosehri  hills. 

All  Kashima  acquits  Mrs.  Vansuythen  of  any  intention 
to  do  harm ;  but  all  Kashima  knows  that  she,  and  she  alone, 
brought  about  their  pain. 

Boulte,  the  engineer,  Mrs.  Boulte,  and  Captain  Kurrell 
know  this.  They  are  the  English  population  of  Kashima,  if 
we  except  Major  Yansuythen,  who  is  of  no  importance  what- 
ever, and  Mrs.  Yansuythen,  who  is  the  most  important  of  all. 

You  must  remember,  though  you  will  not  understand,  that 


Upder  tl^e  Deodars  341 

all  laws  weaken  in  a  small  and  hidden  community  where  there 
is  no  public  opinion.  If  the  Israelites  had  been  only  a  ten- 
tent  camp  of  gypsies,  their  Headman  would  never  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  climb  a  hill  and  bring  down  the  lithographed 
edition  of  the  Decalogue,  and  a  great  deal  of  trouble  would 
have  been  avoided.  When  a  man  is  absolutely  alone  in  a 
Station,  he  runs  a  certain  risk  of  falling  into  evil  ways.  This 
risk  is  multiphed  by  every  addition  to  the  population  up  to 
twelve — ^the  Jury  number.  After  that,  fear  and  consequent 
restraint  begin,  and  human  action  becomes  less  grotesquely 
jerky. 

There  was  deep  peace  in  Kashima  till  Mrs.  Yansuythen 
arrived.  She  was  a  charming  woman,  every  one  said  so 
everywhere ;  and  she  charmed  every  one.  In  spite  of  thiSj 
or,  perhaps,  because  of  this,  since  Fate  is  so  maliciously  per- 
verse, she  cared  only  for  one  man,  and  he  was  Major  Yan- 
suythen. Had  «he  been  plain  or  stupid,  this  matter  would 
have  been  intelligible  to  Kashima.  But  she  was  a  fair  wo- 
man, with  very  still  gray  eyes,  the  color  of  a  lake  just  before 
the  light  of  the  sun  touches  it.  Ko  man  who  had  seen  those 
eyes  could,  later  on,  explain  what  fashion  of  woman  she  was 
to  look  upon.  The  eyes  dazzled  him.  Her  own  sex  said  that 
she  was  "not  bad  lookiag,  but  spoiled  by  pretending  to  be  so 
grave."  And  yet  her  gravity  was  natural.  It  was  not  her 
habit  to  smile.  She  merely  went  through  life,  looking  at 
those  who  passed;  and  the  women  objected,  while  the  men 
fell  down  and  worshiped. 

She  knows  and  is  deeply  sorry  for  the  evil  she  has  don® 
to  Kashima ;  but  Major  Yansuythen  cannot  understand  why 
Mrs.  Boulte  does  not  drop  in  to  afternoon  tea  at  least  three 
times  a  week.  "When  there  are  only  two  women  in  one  Sta- 
tion, they  ought  to  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other,"  says 
Major  Yansuythen. 

Long  and  long  before  ever  Mrs.  Yansuythen  came  out  of 
those  far-away  places  where  there  is  society  and  amusement, 
Kurrell  had  discovered  that  Mrs.  Boulte  was  the  one  woman 
in  the  world  for  him,  and — you  dare  not  blame  them.     Ka- 


342  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  1i{ip\\T)(^ 

shima  was  as  out  of  the  world  as  Heaven  or  the  other  place, 
and  the  Dosehri  hills  kept  their  secret  well.  Boulte  had  no 
concern  in  the  matter.  He  was  in  camp  for  a  fortnight  at  a 
time.  He  was  a  hard,  heavy  man,  and  neither  Mrs.  Boulte 
nor  Kurrell  pitied  him.  They  had  all  Kashima  and  each 
other  for  their  very,  very  own ;  and  Kashima  was  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden  in  those  days.  When  Boulte  returned  from  his 
wanderings  he  would  slap  Kurrell  between  the  shoulders  and 
call  him  *'old  fellow,"  and  the  three  would  dine  together. 
Kashima  was  happy  then  when  the  judgment  of  God  seemed 
almost  as  distant  as  Narkarra  or  the  railway  that  ran  down 
to  the  sea.  But  the  Government  sent  Major  Vansuythen  to 
Kashima,  and  with  him  came  his  wife. 

The  etiquette  of  Kashima  is  much  the  same  as  that  of  a 
desert  island.  When  a  stranger  is  cast  away  there,  all  hands 
go  down  to  the  shore  to  make  him  welcome.  Kashima  as- 
sembled at  the  masonry  platform  close  to  the  ITarkarra  Road, 
and  spread  tea  for  the  Vansuythens.  That  ceremony  was 
reckoned  a  formal  call,  and  made  them  free  of  the  Station, 
its  rights  and  privileges.  When  the  Vansuythens  were  set- 
tled down,  they  gave  a  tiny  house-warming  to  all  Kashima ; 
and  that  made  Kashima  free  of  their  house,  according  to  the 
immemorial  usage  of  the  Station. 

Then  the  Rains  came,  when  no  one  could  go  into  camp, 
and  the  Narkarra  Road  was  washed  away  by  the  Kasun 
River,  and  in  the  cup-like  pastures  of  Kashima  the  cattle 
waded  knee-deep.  The  clouds  dropped  down  from  the 
Dosehri  hills  and  covered  everything. 

At. the  end  of  the  Rains,  Boulte's  manner  toward  Ms  wife 
changed  and  became  demonstratively  affectionate.  They  had 
been  married  twelve  years,  and  the  change  startled  Mrs. 
Boulte,  who  hated  her  husband  with  the  hate  of  a  woman 
who  has  met  with  nothing  but  kindness  from  her  mate,  and, 
in  the  teeth  of  this  kindness,  has  done  him  a  great  wrong. 
Moreover,  she  had  her  own  trouble  to  fight  with — her  watch 
to  keep  over  her  own  property,  Kurrell.  For  two  months 
the   Rains  had   hidden  the  Dosehri   hills  and  many  other 


Ui)der  tl?e  Deodars  343 

things  besides;  but,  when  they  lifted,  they  showed  Mrs. 
Boulte  that  her  man  among  men,  her  led — for  she  called 
him  Ted  in  the  old  days  when  Boulte  was  out  of  ear-shot — 
was  slipping  the  links  of  the  allegiance. 

"The  Vansuythen  Woman  has  taken  him,"  Mrs.  Boulte 
said  to  herself ;  and  when  Boulte  was  away,  wept  over  her 
belief,  in  the  face  of  the  over- vehement  blandishments  of 
Ted.  Sorrow  in  Kashima  is  as  fortunate  as  Love,  in  that 
there  is  nothing  to  weaken  it  save  the  flight  of  Time.  Mrs. 
Boulte  had  never  breathed  her  suspicion  to  Kurrell,  because 
she  was  not  certain ;  and  her  nature  led  her  to  be  very  cer- 
tain before  she  took  steps  in  any  direction.  That  is  why  she 
behaved  as  she  did. 

Boulte  came  into  the  house  one  evening,  and  leaned 
against  the  door-post  of  the  drawing-room,  chewing  his 
mustache.  Mrs.  Boulte  was  putting  some  flowers  into  a 
vase.     There  is  a  pretense  of  civilization  even  in  Kashima. 

"Little  woman,"  said  Boulte,  quietly,  "do  you  care  for 
me?" 

"Immensely,"  said  she,  with  a  laugh.  '  "Can  you  ask  it?" 

"But  I'm  serious,"  said  Boulte.     "Do  you  care  for  me?" 

Mrs.  Boulte  dropped  the  flowers,  and  turned  round  quickly. 
"Do  you  want  an  honest  answer?" 

"Ye-es;  I've  asked  for  it." 

Mrs.  Boulte  spoke  in  a  low,  even  voice  for  five  minutes, 
very  distinctly,  that  there  might  be  no  misunderstanding  her 
meaning.  "When  Samson  broke  the  pillars  of  Gaza,  he  did 
a  little  thing,  and  one  not  to  be  compared  to  the  deliberate 
pulling  down  of  a  woman's  homestead  about  her  own  ears. 
There  was  no  wise  female  friend  to  advise  Mrs.  Boulte,  the 
singularly  cautious  wife,  to  hold  her  hand.  She  struck  at 
Boulte's  heart,  because  her  own  was  sick  with  suspicion  of 
Kurrell,  and  worn  out  with  the  long  strain  of  watching  alone 
through  the  Rains.  There  was  no  plan  or  purpose  in  her 
speaking.  The  sentences  made  themselves ;  and  Boulte  list- 
ened, leaning  against  the  door  post  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.     When  all  was  over,   and  Mrs.    Boulte   began   to 


344  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplii?^ 

breathe  througli  her  nose,  before  breaking  out  into  tears,  he 
laughed  and  stared  straight  in  front  of  him  at  the  Dosehri 
hills. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  said.  ''Thanks;  I  only  wanted  to 
know,  you  know." 

**  What  are  you  going  to  do?"  said  the  woman,  between 
her  sobs, 

'*Dol  Nothing.  What  should  I  do?  KiH  Kurrell  or 
send  you  home,  or  apply  for  leave  to  get  a  divorce?  It's 
two  days'  dak  into  Narkarra."  He  laughed  again  and  went 
on  2  **I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  You  can  ask  Kurrell  to 
dinner  to-morrow— no,  on  Thursdays  that  will  allow  you  time 
to  pack — and  you  can  bolt  with  him,  I  give  you  my  word, 
I  won^t  follow." 

He  took  up  his  helmet  and  went  out  of  the  room,  and 
Mrs.  Boulte  sat  till  the  moonlight  streaked  the  floor,  think- 
ing and  thinking  and  thinking.  She  had  done  her  best  upon 
the  spur  of  the  m.oment  to  pull  the  house  down ;  but  it  would 
not  fall.  Moreover,  she  could  not  understand  her  husband, 
and  she  was  afraid.  ^  Then  the  folly  of  her  useless  truthful- 
ness struck  her,  and  she  was  ashamed  to  write  to  Kurrell, 
saying:  "I  have  gone  mad  and  told  everything.  My  hus- 
band says  that  I  am  free  to  elope  with  you.  Get  a  dak  for 
Thursda}^^  and  we. will  fly  after  dinner,"  There  was  a  cold- 
bloodedness about  that  procedure  which  did  not  appeal  to 
her.     So  she  sat  still  in  her  own  house  and  thought. 

At  dinner-time  Boulte  came  back  from  his  walk,  white 
and  worn  and  haggard,  and  the  woman  was  touched  at  his 
distress.  As  the  evening  wore  on,  she  muttered  some  ex- 
pression of  sorrow,  something  approaching  to  contrition. 
Boulte  came  out  of  a  brown  study,  and  said:  '^Oh,  that!  I 
wasn't  thinking  about  that.  By  the  way,  what  does  Kurrell 
say  to  the  elopement?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him,"  said  Mrs.  Boulte.  "Good  God!  is 
that  all?" 

But  Boulte  was  not  listening,  and  her  sentence  ended  in 
a  giilp. 


tli)der  ti)e  Deodars  345 

The  next  day  brought  no  comfort  to  Mrs.  Boulte,  for 
Kurrell  did  not  appear,  and  the  new  Hfe  that  she,  in  the 
five  minutes'  madness  of  the  previous  evening,  had  hoped 
to  build  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  old,  seemed  to  be  no  nearer. 

Boulte  eat  his  breakfast,  advised  her  to  see  her  Arab  pony- 
fed  in  the  veranda,  and  went  out.  The  morning  wore  through, 
and  at  midday  the  tension  became  unendurable.  Mrs.  Boulte 
could  not  cry.  She  had  finished  her  crying  in  the  night,  and 
now  she  did  not  want  to  be  left  alone.  Perhaps  the  Van- 
suythen  Woman  would  talk  to  her;  and,  since  talking  opens 
the  heart,  perhaps  there  might  be  some  comfort  to  be  found 
in  her  company.  She  was  the  only  other  woman  in  the 
Station. 

In  Kashima  there  are  no  regular  calling-hours.  Every 
one  can  drop  in  upon  every  one  else  at  pleasure.  Mrs.  Boulte 
put  on  a  big  terai  hat,  and  walked  across  to  the  Vansuythens' 
house  to  borrow  last  week's  "Queen."  The  two  compounds 
touched,  and  instead  of  going  up  the  drive,  she  crossed  through 
the  gap  in  the  cactus-hedge,  entering  the  house  from  the  back. 
As  she  passed  through  the  dining-room,  she  heard,  behind 
the  purdah  that  cloaked  the  drawing-room  door,  her  hus- 
band's  voice,  saying : 

"But  on  my  Honor!  On  my  Soul  and  Honor,  I  tell  you 
she  doesn't  care  for  me.  She  told  me  so  last  night.  I  would 
have  told  you  then  if  Vansuythen  hadn't  been  with  you.  If 
it  is  for  her  sake  that  you'll  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  you 
can  make  your  mind  easy.     It's  Kurrell — " 

"What?"  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  a  hysterical  little 
laugh.  "Kurrell!  Oh,  it  can't  be!  You  two  must  have 
made  some  horrible  mistake.  Perhaps  you — you  lost  your 
teraper,  or  misunderstood,  or  something.  Things  canH  be 
as  wrong  as  you  say. ' ' 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  had  shifted  her  defense  to  avoid  the 
man's  pleading,  and  was  desperately  trying  to  keep  him  to 
a  side-issue. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  insisted,  "and  it  can 
be  all  put  right  again." 


346  U/orKs  of  I^udyard  l^iplip^ 

BoTilte  laughed  grimly. 

"It  can't  be  Captain  Kurrell!  He  told  me  that  he  had 
never  taken  the  least — ^the  least  interest  in  your  wife,  Mr. 
Boulte.  Ohj  do  listen!  He  said  he  had  not.  He  swore  he 
had  not,"  said  Mrs.  Yansuythen. 

The  purdah  rustled^  and  the  speech  was  cut  short  by  the 
entry  of  a  little^  thin  woman,  with  big  rings  round  her  eyes. 
Mrs.  Vansuythen  stood  up  with  a  gasp. 

''What  was  that  you  said?"  asked  Mrs.  Boulte.  "l^ever 
mind  that  man.  What  did  Ted  say  to  you?  What  did  he 
say  to  you?    What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  sat  down  helplessly  on  the  sofa,  over- 
borne by  the  trouble  of  her  questioner. 

''He  said— I  can't  remember  exactly  what  he  said—-but 
I  understood  him  to  say— that  is  .  »  .  But,  really,  Mrs. 
Boulte,  isn't  it  rather  a  strange  question?" 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  he  said?"  repeated  Mrs.  Boulte. 
Even  a  tiger  will  fly  before  a  bear  robbed  of  her  whelps,  and 
Mrs.  Vansuythen  was  only  an  ordinarily  good  woman.  She 
began  in  a  sort  of  desperations  "Well,  he  said  that  he  never 
cared  for  you  at  all,  and,  of  course,  there  was  not  the  least 
reason  why  he  should  have,  and — and— that  was  all." 

"You  said  he  swore  he  had  not  cared  for  me.  Was  that 
true?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  very  softly. 

Mrs.  Boulte  wavered  for  an  instant  where  she  stood,  and 
then  fell  forward  fainting. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Boulte,  as  though  the  con- 
versation had  been  unbroken.  "You  can  see  for  yourself. 
She  cares  for  /^.^m."  The  light  began  to  break  into  his  dull 
mind,  and  he  went  on:  "And  he — what  was  he  saying  to 
you?" 

But  Mrs.  Vansuythen,  with  no  heart  for  explanations  or 
impassioned  protestations,  was  kneeling  over  Mrs.  Boulte. 

^'Oh,  you  brute!"  she  cried.  "Are  all  men  like  this? 
Help  me  to  get  her  into  my  room— and  her  face  is  cut  against 
the  table.     Oh,  will  you  be  quiet,  and  help  me  to  carry  herf 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  347 

I  hate  you,  and  I  hate  Captain  Kurrell.  Lift  her  up  care- 
fully, and  now — go!     Go  away!" 

Boulte  carried  his  wife  into  Mrs.  Vansuythen's  bedroom, 
and  departed  before  the  storm  of  that  lady's  wrath  and  dis» 
gust,  impenitent  and  burning  with  jealousy.  Kurrell  had 
been  making  love  to  Mrs.  Vansuythen — would  do  Yan- 
suythen  as  great  a  wrong  as  he  had  done  Boulte,  who  caught 
himself  considering  whether  Mrs.  Vansuythen  would  faint  if 
she  discovered  that  the  man  she  loved  had  foresworn  her. 

In  the  middle  of  these  meditations,  Kurrell  came  canter- 
ing along  the  road  and  pulled  up  with  a  cheery:  "Good- 
mornin'.  'Been  mashing  Mrs.  Vansuythen  as  usual,  eh? 
Bad  thing  for  a  sober,  married  man,  that.  What  will  Mrs. 
Boulte  say?" 

Boulte  raised  his  head  and  said,  slowly : 

*'0h,  you  liar!"     Kurrell's  face  changed. 

*' What's  that?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

*' Nothing  much,"  said  Boulte.  ''Has  my  wife  told  you 
that  you  two  are  free  to  go  off  whenever  you  please?  She 
has  been  good  enough  to  explain  the  situation  to  me.  You've 
been  a  true  friend  to  me,  Kurrell — old  man — haven't  you?" 

Kurrell  groaned,  and  tried  to  frame  some  sort  of  idiotic 
sentence  about  being  willing  to  give  "satisfaction."  But 
his  interest  in  the  woman  was  dead,  had  died  out  in  the 
Rains,  and,  mentally,  he  was  abusing  her  for  her  amazing 
indiscretion.  It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  have  broken  off 
the  liaison  gently  and  by  degrees,  and  now  he  was  saddled 
with.  .  .     Boulte 's  voice  recalled  him. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  get  any  satisfaction  from  killing 
you,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  you'd  get  none  from  killing  me." 

Then  in  a  querulous  tone,  ludicrously  disproportioned  to 
his  wrongs,  Boulte  added : 

'*  'Seems  rather  a  pity  that  you  haven't  the  decency  to 
keep  to  the  woman,  now  you've  got  her.  You've  been  a 
true  friend  to  her  too,  haven't  you?" 

Kurrell  stared  long  and  gravely.  The  situation  was  get- 
ting beyond  him. 


MS  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplip^ 

''What  do  you  mean?"  lie  said. 

Boulte  answered,  more  to  himself  than  the  questioner: 
*'My  wife  came  over  to  Mrs.  Vansuythen's  just  now;  and  it 
seems  you'd  been  telling  Mrs.  Vansuythen  that  you'd  never 
cared  for  Emma.  I  suppose  you  lied,  as  usual.  What  had 
Mrs.  Vansuythen  to  do  with  yoUj  or  you  with  her?  Try  to 
speak  the  truth  for  once  in  ^  way." 

Kurrell  took  the  double  insult  without  wincingj  and  replied 
by  another  question  t 

**Goon,     What  happened?" 

"Emma  fainted/'  said  Boulte,  simply,  **But,  look  here, 
what  had  yon  been  saying  to  Mrs.  Yansuythenf" 

Kurrell  laughed,  Mrs.  Boulte  had,  with  unbridled  tongue, 
made  havoc  of  his  plans;  and  he  could  at  least  retaliate  by 
hurting  the  man  in  whose  eyes  he  was  humiliated  and  shown 
dishonorable. 

^^8aid  to  her?  What  does  a  man  tell  a  lie  like  that  for? 
I  suppose  I  said  pretty  much  what  you've  said,  unless  I'm  a 
good  deal  mistaken.'^ 

*'I  spoke  the  truth,"  said  Boulte,  again  more  to  himself 
than  Kurrell.  "Emma  told  me  she  hated  me.  She  has  no 
right  in  me." 

"iN"©!  I  suppose  not.  You're  only  her  husband,  y'know. 
And  what  did  Mrs.  Vansuythen  say  after  you  had  laid  your 
disengaged  heart  at  her  feet?" 

Kurrell  felt  almost  virtuous  as  he  put  the  question. 

*'I  don't  think  that  matters,"  Boulte  replied;  "and  it 
doesn't  concern  you." 

"But  it  does!  I  tell  you  it  does,"  began  Kurrell,  shame- 
ressly. 

The  sentence  was  cut  by  a  roar  of  laughter  from  Boulte'a 
lips.  Kurrell  was  silent  for  an  instant,  and  then  he,  too, 
laughed — laughed  long  and  loudly,  rocking  in  his  saddle.  It 
was  an  unpleasant  sound- — the  mirthless  mirth  of  these  men 
on  the  long,  white  line  of  the  Karkarra  Road.  There  were 
no  strangers  in  Kashima,  or  they  might  have  thought  that 
captivity  within  the  Dosehri  hills  had  driven  half  the  Eu<^ 


Hinder  tl?e  Deodars  349 

ropean  population  mad.  The  laughter  stopped  abruptly. 
Kurrell  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Boulte  looked  up  the  road,  and  at  the  hills.  *' Nothing," 
said  he,  quietly.  "What's  the  use?  It's  too  ghastly  for  any- 
thing. "We  must  let  the  old  life  go  on.  I  can  only  call  you 
a  hound  and  a  liar,  and  I  can't  go  on  calling  you  names 
forever.  Besides  which,  I  don't  feel  that  I*m  much  better. 
We  can't  get  out  of  this  place,  y 'know.    What  is  there  to  do?" 

Kurrell  looked  round  the  rat-pit  of  Kashima,  and  made  no 
reply.     The  injured  husband  took  up  the  wondrous  talt. 

"Ride  on,  and  speak  to  Emma  if  you  want  to.  God 
knows  I  don't  care  what  you  do." 

He  walked  forward  and  left  Kurrell  gazing  blanMy  after 
him.  Kurrell  did  not  ride  on  either  to  see  Mrs.  Boulte  or 
Mrs.  Vansuythen.  He  sat  in  his  saddle  and  thought,  while 
his  pony  grazed  by  the  road-side. 

The  whir  of  approaching  wheels  roused  him.  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen was  driving  home  Mrs.  Boulte,  white  and  wan,  with 
a  cut  on  her  forehead. 

"Stop,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Boulte;  "I  want  to  speak  to 
Ted." 

Mrs.  Vansuythen  obeyed,  but  as  Mrs.  Boulte  leaned  for« 
ward,  putting  her  hand  upon  the  splash-board  of  the  dog-cart, 
Kurrell  spoke. 

"I've  seen  your  husband,  Mrs.  Boulte." 

There  was  no  necessity  for  any  further  explanation.  Th® 
man's  eyes  were  fixed,  not  upon  Mrs.  Boulte,  but  her  com- 
panion.    Mrs.  Boulte  saw  the  look. 

"SpeaJ^  to  him  I"  she  pleaded,  turning  to  the  woman  at 
her  side.  "Oh,  speak  to  him!  Tell  him  what  you  told  me 
Just  now.     Tell  him  you  hate  him !     Tell  him  you  hate  him !" 

She  bent  forward  and  wept  bitterly,  while  the  sais,  decor^ 
ously  impassive,  went  forward  to  hold  the  horse.  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen turned  scarlet  and  dropped  the  rein.  She  wished  to 
be  no  party  to  such  an  unholy  explanation. 

"I've  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she  began,  coldly;  but  Mrs, 


^50  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplir>^ 

Boulte's  sobs  overcame  her,  and  she  addressed  herself  to  the 
man.  ''I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  say,  Captain  Kurrell. 
I  don't  know  what  I  can  call  you.  I  think  you've — you've 
behaved  abominably,  and  she  has  cut  her  forehead  terribly 
against  the  table." 

"It  doesn't  hurt.  It  isn't  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Boulte, 
feebly.  '''That  doesn't  matter.  Tell  him  what  you  told  me. 
Say  you  don't  care  for  him.  Oh,  Ted,  wonH  you  believe 
her?" 

"Mrs.  Boulte  has  made  me  understand  that  you  were— 
that  you  were  fond  of  her  once  upon  a  time,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Vansuythen. 

"Well!"  said  Kurrell,  brutally.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
Mrs.  Boulte  had  better  be  fond  of  her  own  husband  first." 

"Stop!"  said  Mrs.  Yansuythen.  "Hear  me  first.  I  don't 
care — I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  you  and  Mrs. 
Boulte ;  but  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  hate  you,  that  I  think 
you  a  cur,  and  that  I'll  never,  never  speak  to  you  again. 
Oh,  I  don't  dare  to  say  what  I  think  of  you,  you  .  .  .  man ! 
Sais^  gorah  ko  Jane  do.'^ 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Ted,"  moaned  Mrs.  Boulte;  but  the 
dog-cart  rattled  on,  and  Kurrell  was  left  on  the  road,  shamed, 
and  boiling  with  wrath  against  Mrs.  Boulte. 

He  waited  till  Mrs.  Yansuythen  was  driving  back  to  her 
own  house,  and,  she  being  freed  from  the  embarrassment  of 
Mrs.  Boulte's  presence,  learned  for  the  second  time  a  truthful 
opinion  of  himself  and  his  actions. 

In  the  evenings,  it  was  the  wont  of  all  Kashima  to  meet  at 
the  platform  on  the  l^arkarra  Road,  to  drink  tea,  and  discuss 
the  trivialities  of  the  day.  Major  Yansuythen  and  his  wife 
found  themselves  alone  at  the  gathering-place  for  almost  the 
first  time  in  their  remembrance;  and  the  cheery  Major,  in 
the  teeth  of  his  wife's  remarkably  reasonable  suggestion  that 
the  rest  of  the  Station  might  be  sick,  insisted  upon  driving 
round  to  the  two  bungalows  and  unearthing  the  population. 

"Sitting  in  the  twilight!"  said  he,  with  great  indignation, 
to  the  Boultes.     "That'll  never  do!     Hang  it  all,  we're  one 


llpder  tl?e  Deodars  351 

family  here !  You  must  come  out,  and  so  must  Kurrell.  I'll 
make  Mm  bring  his  banjo." 

So  great  is  the  power  of  honest  simplicity  and  a  good 
digestion  over  guilty  consciences  that  all  Kashima  did  turn 
out,  even  down  to  the  banjo;  and  the  Major  embraced  the 
company  in  one  espansive  grin.  As  he  grinned,  Mrs.  Yan- 
suythen  raised  her  eyes  for  an  instant  and  looked  at  Kashima. 
Her  meaning  was  clear.  Major  Yansuythen  would  never 
know  anything.  He  was  to  be  the  outsider  in  that  happy 
family  whose  cage  was  the  Dosehri  hills. 

"You're  singing  villainously  out  of  tune,  Kurrell/*  said 
the  Major,  truthfully.     ^*Pass  me  that  banjo." 

And  he  sung  in  excruciating- wise  till  the  stars  came  out 
and  Kashima  went  to  dinner. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  ITew  Life  of  Kashima — -the 
life  that  Mrs.  Boulte  made  when  her  tongue  was  loosened  in 
the  twilight. 

Mrs.  Yansuythen  has  never  told  the  Major;  and  since  ho 
insists  upon  the  maintenance  of  a  burdensome  geniality,  she 
has  been  compelled  to  break  her  vow  of  not  speaking  to  Kur- 
rell.  This  speech,  which  must  of  necessity  preserve  the  sem- 
blance of  politeness  and  interest,  serves  admirably  to  keep 
alight  the  flame  of  jealousy  and  dull  hatred  in  Boulte's  bosom, 
as  it  awakens  the  same  passions  in  his  wife's  heart,  Mrs. 
Boulte  hates  Mrs.  Yansuythen  because  she  has  taken  Ted 
from  her,  and,  in  some  curious  fashion,  hates  her  because 
Mrs.  Yansuythen — -and  here  the  wife's  eyes  see  far  more 
clearly  than  the  husband's— detests  Ted.  And  Ted^ — that 
gallant  captain  and  honorable  man— knows  now  that  it  is 
possible  to  hate  a  woman  once  loved,  even  to  the  verge  of 
wishing  to  silence  her  forever  with  blows.  Above  all,  is  he 
shocked  that  Mrs.  Boulte  cannot  see  the  error  of  her  ways, 

Boulte  and  he  go  out  tiger-shooting  together  in  amity  and 
all  good  friendship.  Boulte  has  put  their  relationship  on  a 
most  satisfactory  footing. 

"You're  a  blackguard,"  he  says  to  Kurrell,  "and  I've 


^52  Worlds  of  F^udyard  \{ipViT)q 

lost  any  self-respect  I  may  ever  have  had ;  but  when  you're 
with  me,  I  can  feel  certain  that  you  are  not  with  Mrs.  Van- 
suythen,  or  making  Emma  miserable." 

Kurrell  endures  anything  that  Boulte  may  say  to  him. 
Sometimes  they  are  away  for  three  days  together,  and  then 
the  Major  insists  upon  his  wife  going  over  to  sit  with  Mrs. 
Boulte;  although  Mrs.  Vansuythen  has  repeatedly  avowed 
that  she  prefers  her  husband's  company  to  any  in  the  world. 
From  the  way  in  which  she  clings  to  him,  she  would  certainly 
appear  to  be  speaking  the  truth. 

But  of  course,  as  the  Major  says,  ''in  a  little  Station  we 
must  all  be  friendly." 


THE   HILL   OF   ILLUSION 

What  rendered  vain  their  deep  desire? 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled, 
And  bade  between  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

— M.  Arnold 

He. — Tell  your  jhampanis  not  to  hurry  so,  dear.  They 
forget  I'm  fresh  from  the  Plains. 

She. — Sure  proof  that  I  have  not  been  going  out  with 
anyone.  Yes,  they  are  an  untrained  crew.  Where  do 
we  go? 

He.— As  usual — to  the  world's  end.     !N"o,  Jakko. 

She. — Have  your  pony  led  after  you,  then.  It's  a  long 
Tound. 

He.— -And  for  the  last  time,  thank  Heaven! 

She. — Do  you  mean  that  still?  I  didn't  dare  to  write  to 
you  about  it  ...  all  these  months. 

He. — Mean  it!  I've  been  shaping  my  affairs  to  that  end 
since  Autumn.  "What  makes  you  speak  as  though  it  had 
occurred  to  you  for  the  first  time? 

She. — I?  Oh!  I  don't  know.  I've  had  long  enough  to 
think,  too. 


Hinder  tl?e  Deodars  353 

He. — And  you*ve  changed  your  mind? 

She. — Ko.  You  ought  to  know  that  I  am  a  miracle  of 
constancy.     "What  are  your — arrangements? 

"He.— Ours,  Sweetheart,  please. 

She. — Ours,  be  it  then.  My  poor  boy,  how  the  prickly 
heat  has  marked  your  forehead!  Have  you  ever  tried  sul- 
phate of  copper  in  water? 

He. — It'll  go  away  in  a  day  or  two  up  here.  The  arrange- 
ments are  simple  enough.  Tonga  in  the  early  morning— 
reach  Kalka  at  twelve — Umballa  at  seven — down,  straight 
by  night-train,  to  Bombay,  and  then  the  steamer  of  the  21st 
for  Rome.  That's  my  idea.  The  Continent  and  Sweden— 
a  ten-week  honeymoon. 

She. — Ssh!  Don't  talk  of  it  in  that  way.  It  makes  me 
afraid.     Guy,  how  long  have  we  two  been  insane? 

He. — Seven  months  and  fourteen  days;  I  forget  the  odd 
hours  exactly,  but  I'll  think. 

She. — I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you  remembered.  Wko  are 
those  two  on  the  Blessington  Road? 

He. — Eabrey  and  the  Penner  woman.  What  do  they 
matter  to  usf  Tell  me  everything  that  youVe  been  doing 
and  saying  and  thinking. 

She.— Doing  little,  saying  less,  and  thinking  a  great  deal. 
I've  hardly  been  out  at  all. 

He.  —That  was  wrong  of  you.     You  haven't  been  mopingf 

She. — Not  very  much.  Can  you  wonder  that  I'm  disiii« 
clined  for  amusement? 

He. — Frankly,  I  do.     Where  was  the  diSScnlty? 

She. — In  this  only.  The  more  people  I  know  and  the 
more  I'm  known  here,  the  wider  spread  will  be  the  news  of 
the  crash  when  it  comes.     I  don't  like  that. 

He.—Konsense.     We  shall  be  out  of  it. 

She. — You  think  so? 

He. — I'm  sure  of  it,  if  there  is  any  power  in  steam  or 
horse-flesh  to  carry  us  away.     Hal  ha! 

She. — And  the  fun  of  the  situation  comes  in — where,  my 
Lancelot? 


354  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

He. — Nowhere,  Guinevere.  I  was  only  thinking  of  some- 
thing. 

She. — They  say  men  have  a  keener  sense  of  humor  than 
women.     Kow  I  was  thinking  of  the  scandal. 

He. — Don't  think  of  anything  so  ugly.  We  shall  be 
beyond  it. 

She. — It  will  be  there  all  the  same— in  the  mouths  of 
Simla — telegraphed  over  India,  and  talked  of  at  the  dinners 
-—and  when  He  goes  out  they  will  stare  at  Him  to  see  how 
He  takes  it.  And  we  shall  be  dead,  Guy  dear— dead  and 
cast  into  the  outer  darkness,  where  there  is — 

He.  — Love  at  least.     Isn't  that  enough? 

She. — I  have  said  so. 

He.— And  you  think  so  still? 

She.— What  do  you  think? 

He. — What  have  I  done?  It  means  equal  ruin  to 
me,  as  the  world  reckons  it — outcasting,  the  loss  of  my 
appointment,  the  breaking  off  my  life's  work.  I  pay  my 
price. 

She. — And  are  you  so  much  above  the  world  that  you  can 
afford  to  pay  it.     Am  I? 

He.  — My  Divinity — what  else? 

She. — A  very  ordinary  woman,  I'm  afraid,  but,  so  far, 
respectable.  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Middleditch?  Your  hus- 
band? I  think  he's  riding  down  to  Annandale  with  Colonel 
Statters.  Yes,  isn't  it  divine  after  the  rain?  .  .  ,  Guy, 
how  long  am  I  to  be  allowed  to  bow  to  Mrs.  Middleditch? 
TiU  the  17th? 

Hs. — Frouzy  Scotch  woman!  What  is  the  use  of  bring- 
ing her  into  the  discussion?     You  were  saying? 

She. — Nothing.     Have  you  ever  seen  a  man  hanged? 

He. — Yes.     Once. 

She. — What  was  it  for? 

He. — Murder,  of  course. 

She.  —Murder !  Is  that  so  great  a  sin  after  all?  I  wonder 
how  he  felt  before  the  drop  fell. 

He.— I  don't  think  he  felt  much.     What  a  gruesome  lit-* 


i 


Under  the  Deodars  355 

tie  woman  it  is  this  evening!     You're  sliivering»     Put  on 
your  cape,  dear. 

She. — I  think  I  will.  Oh!  look  at  the  mist  coming  over 
Sanjaoli;  and  I  thought  we  should  have  sunshine  on  the 
Ladies' Mile!     Let's  turn  back. 

He. — What's  the  good?  There's  a  cloud  on  Elysium 
Hill,  and  that  means  it's  foggy  all  down  the  Mall.  We'll 
go  on.  It'll  blow  away  before  we  get  to  the  Convent,  per- 
haps.    Jove!     It  is  chilly. 

She. — You  feel  it,  fresh  from  below.  Put  on  your  ulster. 
What  do  you  think  of  my  cape? 
1^  He. — ITever  ask  a  man  his  opinion  of  a  woman's  dress 
when  he  is  desperately  and  abjectly  in  love  with  the  wearer. 
Let  me  look.  Like  everything  else  of  yours,  it's  perfect. 
Where  did  you  get  it  from? 

She. — He  gave  it  me,  on  Wednesday  .  .  .  our  wedding- 
day,  you  know. 
fc'     He. — The  deuce  He  did!     He's  growing  generous  in  his 
old   age.     D'you  like  all  that   frilly,  bunchy  stuff  at  the 
throat?     I  don't. 

She.—Don't  you? 

"Kind  Sir,  o'  your  courtesy, 
As  you  go  by  the  town.  Sir, 
Pray  you  o'  your  love  for  me 
Buy  me  a  russet  gown.  Sir." 

He. — I  won't  say:  *'Keek  into  the  draw-well,  Janet, 
Janet."  Only  wait  a  little,  darling,  and  you  shall  be  stocked 
with  russet  gowns  and  everything  else. 

She. — And  when  the  frocks  wear  out,  you'll  get  me  new 
ones  .  .  .  and  everything  else? 

He. — Assuredly. 

She. — I  wonder! 

He. — Look  here.  Sweetheart,  I  didn't  spend  two  days 
and  two  nights  in  the  train  to  hear  you  wonder.  I  thought 
we'd  settled  all  that  at  Shaifazehat. 

She  {dreamily). — At  Shaifazehat?    Does  the  Station  go 


1 


S/SB  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{ip\lT)<^ 

on  still?  Tliat  was  ages  and  ages  ago.  It  must  be  crum- 
bling to  pieces.  All  except  the  Amirtollah  kutcha  road.  I 
don't  believe  that  could  crumble  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

He.— You  think  so?    What  is  the  mood  now? 

She.  —I  can't  telL     How  cold  it  is !     Let  us  get  on  quickly. 

He.— -Better  walk  a  little.  Stop  your  Jhampanis  and  gett 
out.     What's  the  matter  with  you  this  evening,  dear? 

She,  — Kothing.  You  must  grow  accustomed  to  my  ways. . 
If  I'm  boring  you  I  can  go  home.  Here's  Captain  Oongletoa 
coming;  I  daresay  he'll  be  willing  to  escort  me. 

He.— Goose!  Between  ms,  too!  Dam^  Captain  Congle- 
ton.     There! 

She. — Chivalrous  Knight!  Is  it  your  habit  to  swear 
much  in  talking?  It  jars  a  littles  and  you  might  swear  at 
me. 

He.— My  angel!  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying;  and 
you  changed  so  quickly  that  I  couldn't  follow.  I'U  apologize 
in  dust  and  ashes. 

She. — Spare  those.  There'll  be  enough  of  them  later  on. 
Good-night,  Captain  Congleton.  Going  to  the  singing-qua- 
drilles already?  What  dances  am  I  giving  you  next  week? 
No!  You  must  have  written  them  down  wrong.  Five  and 
Seven,  I  said«  If  you've  made  a  mistake,  I  certainly  don't 
intend  to  sufiPer  for  it.     You  must  alter  your  programme. 

He. — I  thought  you  told  me  that  you  had  not  been  going 
out  much  this  season? 

She.— Quite  true,  but  when  I  do  I  dance  with  Captain 
Congleton.     He  dances  very  nicelyc 

He. — ^And  sit  out  with  him,  I  suppose? 

She.— Yes.  Have  you  any  objection?  Shall  I  stand 
under  the  chandelier  in  future? 

He» — What  does  he  talk  to  you  about? 

She.— What  do  men  talk  about  when  they  sit  out? 

He. — Ugh!     Don't!     Well,  now,  I'm  up.     You  must  dis- 
pense with  the  fascinating  Congleton  for  a  while.     I  don't  t 
like  him. 

She  {after  a  pause), — Do  you  know  what  you  hare  said?  i 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  357 

He. —'Can't  say  that  I  do,  exactly.  I'm  not  in  the  best 
of  tempers. 

She. — So  I  see  .  .  .  and  feel.     My  true  and  faithful  lover, 
where  is  your  ''eternal  constancy,"  "unalterable  trust,"  and 
** reverent  devotion"?    I  remember  those  phrases ;   you  seem 
,to  have  forgotten  them.     I  mention  a  man's  name — 
I      He.  — A  good  deal  more  than  that. 

i  She. — Well,  speak  to  him  about  a  dance — perhaps  the  last 
dance  that  I  shall  ever  dance  in  my  life  before  I  ,  .  .  before 
I  go  away ;  and  you  at  once  distrust  and  insult  me. 

He. — I  never  said  a  word. 

She. — How  much  did  you  imply?  Guy,  is  this  amount 
of  confidence  to  be  our  stock  to  start  the  new  Ufe  on? 

He. — !N"o,  of  course  not.  I  didn't  mean  that.  On  my 
word  and  honor,  I  didn't.  Let  it  pass,  dear.  Please  let 
it  pass. 

She. — This  once — yes — and  a  second  time,  and  again  and 
again,  all  through  the  years  when  I  shall  be  unable  to  resent 
it.  You  want  too  much,  my  Lancelot,  and  .  .  .  you  know 
too  much. 

He. — How  do  you  mean? 

She. — That  is  a  part  of  the  punishment.  There  cannot 
be  perfect  trust  between  us. 

He. — In  Heaven's  name,  why  not? 

She. — Hush!  The  Other  Place  is  quite  enough.  Ask 
yourself. 

He. — I  don't  follow. 

She. — You  trust  me  so  implicitly  that  when  I  look  afe 
another  man  .  .  .  Never  mind.  Guy,  have  you  ever  made 
love  to  a  girl — a  good  girl? 

He. — Something  of  the  sort.  Centuries  ago — in  the  Dark 
Ages,  before  I  ever  met  you,  dear. 

She. — Tell  me  what  you  said  to  her. 

He. — What  does  a  man  say  to  a  girl?     I've  forgotten. 

She. — J  remember.  He  tells  her  that  he  trusts  her  and 
worships  the  ground  she  walks  on,  and  that  he'll  love  and 
honor  and  protect  her  till  her  dying  day ;  and  so  she  marries 


358  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  t^iplip^ 

in  that  belief.     At  least,  I  speak  of  one  girl  who  was  not 
protected. 

He.  — "Well,  and  then? 

She.  — And  then,  Guy,  and  then,  that  girl  needs  ten  times 
the  love  and  trust  and  honor— yes,  honor— that  was  enough 
when  she  was  only  a  mere  wife  if— -if — the  second  life  she 
elects  to  lead  is  to  be  made  eyen  bearable.  Do  you  under- 
stand? 

He. — Even  bearable!    It'll  be  Paradise. 

She.  — Ah !  Can  you  give  me  all  I've  asked  for— not  now, 
nor  a  few  months  later,  but  when  you  begin  to  think  of  what 
you  might  have  done  if  you  had  kept  your  own  appointment 
and  your  caste  here— when  you  begin  to  look  upon  me  as 
a  drag  and  a  burden?  I  shall  want  it  most  then,  Guy,  for 
there  will  be  no  one  in  the  wide  world  but  you. 

He. — You're  a  little  overtired  to-night,  Sweetheart,  and 
you're  taking  a  stage  view  of  the  situation.  After  the  neces- 
sary business  in  the  Courts,  the  road  is  clear  to — 

She.' — **The  holy  state  of  matrimony!"     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

He. — Ssh!     Don't  laugh  in  that  horrible  way! 

She.— I — I  c-c-c-can't  help  it!  Isn't  it  too  absurd!  Ah! 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  Guy,  stop  me  quick,  or  I  shall — 1-1-laugh  till 
we  get  to  the  Church. 

He.— For  goodness'  sake,  stop!  Don't  make  an  exhibi- 
tion of  yourself.     What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

She.^ — !N"-nothing.     I'm  better  now. 

He. — That's  all  right.     One  moment,  dear.     There's  a  . 
little  whisp  of  hair  got  loose  from  behind  your  right  ear,  and 
it's  straggling  over  your  cheek.     So! 

She,— Thank'oo.     I'm  'fraid  my  hat's  on  one  side,  too. 

He. — "What  do  you  wear  these  huge  dagger  bonnet- 
skewers  for?     They're  big  enough  to  kill  a  man  with. 

She.— Oh!  Don't  kill  me,  though.  You're  sticking  it 
into  my  head!     Let  me  do  it.     You  men  are  so  clumsy. 

He. — Have  you  had  many  opportunities  of  comparing  ; 
us — in  this  sort  of  work? 

She.  —Guy,  what  is  my  name? 


Urjder  tlpe  Deodars  359 

He.— Eh!     I  don't  follow. 

She.— Here's  my  card-case.     Can  you  read? 

He.— Yes.     Well? 

She. — "Well,  that  answers  your  question.  You  know  the 
other  man's  name.  Am  I  sufficiently  humbled,  or  would  you 
like  to  ask  me  if  there  is  any  one  else? 

He. — I  see  now.  My  darling,  I  never  meant  that  for  an 
instant.  I  was  only  joking.  There !  Lucky  there's  no  one 
on  the  road.  -  They'd  be  scandalized. 

She. — They'll  be  more  scandalized  before  the  end. 

He. — Do-on't.     I  don't  like  you  to  talk  in  that  way. 

She, — Unreasonable  man!  "Who  asked  me  to  face  the 
situation  and  accept  it?  Tell  me,  do  I  look  like  Mrs.  Penner? 
Do  I  look  like  a  naughty  woman?  Swear  I  don't !  Give  me 
your  word  of  honor,  my  honorable  friend,  that  I'm  not  like 
Mrs.  Buzgago.  That's  the  way  she  stands,  with  her  hands 
clasped  at  the  back  of  her  head.     D'you  like  that? 

He. — Don't  be  affected. 

She.— I'm  not.     I'm  Mrs.  Buzgago.     Listen! 

"Pendant  une  anne'  toute  entiere, 
Le  regiment  n'a  pas  r'paru. 
Au  Ministere  de  la  Guerre 
On  le  r 'porta  comme  perdu. 


C( 


On  se  r'noncait  a  r'trouver  sa  trace, 
Quand  un  matin  subitement, 
On  le  vit  r'paraitre  sur  la  place, 
L'  Colonel  tou jours  en  avanti" 

That's  the  way  she  rolls  her  r's.     Am  I  like  her? 

He. — No ;  but  I  object  when  you  go  on  like  an  actress 
and  sing  stuff  of  that  kind.  "Where  in  the  world  did  you  pick 
up  the  Chanson  du  Colonel?  It  isn't  a  drawing-room  song. 
It  isn't  proper. 

She. — Mrs.  Buzgago  taught  it  me.  She  is  both  drawing- 
room  and  proper,  and  in  another  month  she'll  shut  her  draw- 
ing-room to  me,  and,  thank  God,  she  isn't  as  improper  as  I 
am.     Oh,. Guy,  Guy!     I  wish  I  was  like  some  women,  and 


360  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l{ip\iT)(^ 

had  no  scruples  about — wliat  is  it  Keene  says? — "Wearing  a 
corpse's  hair,  and  being  false  to  the  bread  thej  eat." 

He.— I  am  only  a  man  of  limited  intelligence,  and,  just 
now,  very  bewildered.  When  you  have  quite  finished  flash- 
ing through  all  your  moods,  tell  me,  and  I'll  try  to  under- 
stand the  last  one. 

She. — Moods,  Guy!  I  haven't  any.  I'm  sixteen  years 
©Id,  and  you're  just  twenty,  and  you've  been  waiting  for  two 
hours  outside  the  school  in  the  cold.  And  now  I've  met  you, 
and  now  we're  walking  home  together.  Does  that  suit  you. 
My  Imperial  Majesty? 

He. — Fo.  We  aren't  children.  Why  can't  you  be  ra- 
tional? 

She.— He  asks  m.®  that  when  I'm  going  to  commit  social 
suicide  for  his  ^ake,  a^d,  and  .  .  .  I  don't  want  to  be  French 
and  rave  about  ^^nm  m-ire^^^  but  have  I  ever  told  you  that  I 
have  a  mother,  and  a  brother  who  was  my  pet  before  I  mar- 
ried? He's  married  new.  Oan't  you  imagine  the  pleasure 
that  the  news  of  the  elopement  will  give  him?  Have  you 
any  people  at  home,  Guy,  to  be  pleased  with  your  perform- 
ances? 

He.— One  or  two.  We  can't  make  omelets  without  break- 
ing eggs. 

She  (slowly).—!  don't  see  the  necessity— 

He. — Hah!    What  do  you  mean? 

She.— Shall  I  speak  the  truth? 

He.— Under  the  circumstances,  perhaps  it  would  bo  as 
well. 

She. — Guy,  I'm  afraid. 

He. — I  thought  we'd  settled  all  that.     What  of? 

She.— Of  you. 

He. — Oh,  damn  it  all  I    The  old  business !    This  is  too  bad  I 

She. — Of  you. 

He. — ^And  what  now? 

She. — What  do  you  think  of  me? 

He. — Beside  the  question  altogether.  What  do  you  in- 
tend to  do? 


Ui)der  tl?e  Deodars  361 

She. — I  daren't  risk  it.  I'm  afraid.  If  I  could  only- 
cheat  .  .  . 

He. — A  la  Buzgago?  Ko,  thanks.  That's  the  one  point 
on  which  I  have  any  notion  of  Honor.  I  won't  eat  his  salt 
and  steal  too.     I'll  loot  openly  or  not  at  all. 

She. — I  never  meant  anything  else. 

He. — Then,  why  in  the  world  do  you  pretend  not  to  be 
willing  to  come? 

She. — It's  not  pretense,  Guy.     I  am  afraid. 

He.- — Please  explain. 

She. — It  can't  last,  Guy.  It  can't  last.  You'll  get  angry, 
and  then  you'll  swear,  and  then  you'll  get  jealous,  and  then 
you'll  mistrust  me — you  do  now — and  you  yourself  will  be 
the  best  reason  for  doubting.  And  I— what  shall  J  do?  I 
shall  be  no  better  than  Mrs.  Buzgago  found  out — no  better 
than  any  one.  And  you'll  know  that.  Oh,  Guy,  can't  you 
see  9 

He. — I  see  that  you  are  desperately  unreasonable,  little 
woman. 

She.— There!  The  moment  I  begin  to  object,  you  get 
angry.  "What  will  you  do  when  I  am  only  your  property — 
stolen  property?  It  can't  be,  Guy—  It  can't  be!  I  thought 
it  could,  but  it  canH.     You'll  get  tired  of  me. 

He. — I  tell  you  I  shall  not.  Won't  anything  make  you 
understand  that? 

She. — There,  can't  you  see?    If  you  speak  to  me  like  that 
*now,  you'll  call  me  horrible  names  later,  if  I  don't  do  every- 
thing as  you  Hke.     And  if  you  were  cruel  to  me,  Guy,  where 
should  I  go — where  should  I  go?    I  can't  trust  you! 

He. — I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  that  I  can  trust  you.  I've 
ample  reason. 

She. — Please  don't,  dear.  It  hurts  as  much  as  if  you 
hit  me. 

He. — It  isn't  exactly  pleasant  for  me. 

She. — I  can't  help  it.     I  wish  I  were  dead!     I  can't  trust 
you,  and  I  don't  trust  myself.     Oh,  Guy,  let  it  die  away  and 
be  forgotten  1 
Vol.  3.  !6 


362  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

He. — Too  late  now.  I  don't  understand  you — I  won't— 
and  I  can't  trust  myself  to  talk  this  evening.  May  I  call 
to-morrow?? 

She.  —Yes.  No!  Oh,  give  me  time !  The  day  after.  I 
get  into  my  'rickshaw  here  and  meet  Him  at  Peliti's.  You 
ride. 

He. — I'll  go  on  to  Peliti's,  too.  I  think  I  want  a  drink. 
My  world's  knocked  about  my  ears,  and  the  stars  are  falling. 
Who  are  those  brutes  howling  in  the  Old  Library? 

She. — They're  rehearsing  the  singing-quadrilles  for  the 
Fancy  Ball.  Can't  you  hear  Mrs.  Buzgago's  voice?  She 
has  a  solo.     It's  quite  a  new  idea.     Listen! 

Mrs.  Buzgago  {in  the  Old  Library,  con.  molt,  exp.). 


a 


See-saw!     Margery  Daw! 

Sold  her  bed  to  lie  upon  straw. 

Wasn't  she  a  silly  slut 

To  sell  her  bed  and  lie  upon  dirt?'' 

Captain  Congleton,  I'm  going  to  alter  that  to  *' flirt."     It 
sounds  better. 

He. — -No,  I've  changed  my  mind  about  the  drink.     Good- 
night, little  lady.     I  shall  see  you  to-morrow? 

She. — Ye— es.     Good-night,  Guy.     DonH  he  angry  with 
me. 

He.— Angry'     You /b?i02^  I  trust  you  absolutely.     Good- 
night, and — God  bless  you! 

{Three  seconds  later.     Solus.)     H'm!     I'd  give  some 
thing  to  discover  whether  there's  another  man  at  the  back  of 
all  this. 


i 


Uijder  tl?e  Deodars  363 


A   SECOND-RATE   WOMAN 

Est  fuga,  volvitur  rota^ 

On  we  drift:  where  looms  the  dim  port? 
One  Two  Three  Four  Five  contribute  their  quota: 

Something  is  gained  if  one  caught  but  the  import, 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 

—Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Qotha 

** Dressed!  DonH  tell  me  that  woman  ever  dressed  in 
her  Hfe.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  while  her  ayah 
—no,  her  husband — it  must  have  been  a  man— threw  her 
clothes  at  her.  She  then  did  her  hair  with  her  fingers,  and 
rubbed  her  bonnet  in  the  flue  under  the  bed,  I  know  she 
did,  as  well  as  if  I  had  assisted  at  the  orgy.  Who  is  she?" 
said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

"Don*t!"  said  Mrs^  Mallowe,  feebly.  "Yon  make  my 
head  ache.  I'm  miserable  to-day.  Stay  me  with  fondants^ 
comfort  me  with  chocolates,  for  I  am  ...  Did  you  bring 
anything  from  Peliti's?" 

"Questions  to  begin  with.  You  shall  have  the  sweets 
when  you  have  answered  them.  Who  and  what  is  the  crea- 
ture? There  were  at  least  half  a  dozen  men  round  her,  and 
she  appeared  to  be  going  to  sleep  in  their  midst, 

*'i)elville,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  "  'Shady'  Delville,  to 
distinguish  her  from  Mrs.  Jim  of  that  ilk.  She  dances  as 
untidily  as  she  dresses,  I  believe,  and  her  husband  is  some- 
where in  Madras.     Go  and  call,  if  you  are  so  interested." 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  Shigramitish  women?  She 
merely  caught  my  attention  for  a  minute,  and  I  wondered  at 
the  attraction  that  a  dowd  has  for  a  certain  type  of  man.  I 
expected  to  see  her  walk  out  of  her  clothes — until  I  looked  at 
her  eyes." 

"Hooks  and  eyes,  surely,"  drawled  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

"Don't  be  clever,  Polly.  You  make  my  head  ache.  And 
round  this  hayrick  stood  a  crowd  of  men — a  positive  crowd!" 


364  U/orks  of  F^adyard  I^iplip^ 

"Perhaps  they  also  expected — " 

*' Polly,  don't  be  Rabelaisian!" 

Mrs.  Mallov/e  curled  herself  up  comfortably  on  the  sofa, 
and  turned  her  attention  to  the  sweets.  She  and  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee  shared  the  same  house  at  Simla ;  and  these  things  befell 
two  seasons  after  the  matter  of  Otis  Yeere,  which  has  been 
already  recorded. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  stepped  into  the  veranda  and  looked  down 
upon  the  Mall,  her  forehead  puckered  with  thought. 

"Hah!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  shortly.     "Indeed!" 

"What  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  sleepily. 

"That  dowd  and  The  Dancing  Master- — to  whom  I 
object," 

"Why  to  The  Dancing  Master?  He  is  a  middle-aged  gen- 
tleman, of  reprobate  and  romantic  tendencies,  and  tries  to  be 
a  friend  of  mine." 

"Then  make  up  your  mind  to  lose  him.  Dowds  cling  by 
nature,  and  I  should  imagine  that  this  animal — how  terrible 
her  bonnet  looks  from  above! — is  specially  clingsome." 

"She  is  welcome  to  The  Dancing  Master  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  I  never  could  take  an  interest  in  a  monotonous 
liar.  The  frustrated  aim  of  his  life  is  to  persuade  people  that 
he  is  a  bachelor." 

"0-oh!  I  think  I've  met  that  sort  of  man  before.  And 
isn't  he?" 

.  * '  No.     He  confided  that  to  me  a  few  days  ago.     Ugh ! 
Some  men  ought  to  be  killed." 

"What  happened  then?" 

"He  posed  as  the  horror  of  horrors — a  misunderstood  man. 
Heaven  knows  the  femme  incomprise  is  sad  enough  and  bad 
enough — but  the  other  thing!" 

"And  so  fat,  too!  I  should  have  laughed  in  his  face. 
Men  seldom  corSde  in  me.     How  is  it  they  come  to  you?" 

"For  the  sake  of  impressing  me  with  their  careers  in  the 
past.     Protect  me  from  men  with  confidences!" 

"And  yet  you  encourage  themr" 

"What  can  I  do?     They  talk,  I  listen,  and  they  vow  that 


Ur>der  el?e  Deodars  365 

I  am  sympathetic.  I  know  I  always  profess  astonishment 
even  when  the  plot  is— -of  the  most  old  possible." 

"Yes.  Men  are  so  unblushingly  explicit  if  they  are  once 
allowed  to  talk,  whereas  women's  confidences  are  full  of 
reservations  and  fibs,  except — " 

*'When  they  go  mad  and  babble  of  the  Unutterabilities 
after  a  week's  acquaintance.  Even  then,  they  always  paint 
themselves  ci  la  Mrs.  Gummidge — throwing  cold  water  on 
him.  Really,  if  you  come  to  consider,  we  know  a  great  deal 
more  of  men  than  of  our  own  sex." 

"And  the  extraordinary  thing  is  that  men  will  never 
believe  it.     They  say  we  are  trying  to  hide  something." 

"They  are  generally  doing  that  on  their  own  account— 
and  very  clumsily  they  hide.  Alas!  These  chocolates  pall 
upon  me,  and  I  haven't  eaten  more  than  a  dozen.  I  think  I 
shall  go  to  sleep." 

"Then  you'll  get  fat,  dear.  If  you  took  more  exercise 
and  a  more  intelligent  interest  in  your  neighbors,  you 
would—" 

"Be  as  imiversally  loved  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  You*re  a 
darling  in  many  ways,  and  I  like  you — -you  are  not  a  woman's 
woman — but  why  do  you  trouble  yourself  about  mere  human 
beings?" 

"Because,  in  the  absence  of  angels,  who,  I  am  sure,  would 
be  horribly  dull,  men  and  women  are  the  most  fascinating 
things  in  the  whole  wide  world,  lazy  one.  I  am  interested  in 
The  Dowd — I  am  interested  in  The  Dancing  Master— I  am 
interested  in  the  Hawley  Boy— and  I  am  interested  in  you."*^ 

"Why  couple  me  with  the  Hawley  Boy?  He  is  your 
property." 

"Yes,  and  in  his  own  guileless  speech,  I'm  making  a  good 
thing  out  of  him.  "When  he  is  slightly  more  reformed,  and 
has  passed  his  Higher  Standard,  or  whatever  the  authorities 
think  fit  to  exact  from  him,  I  shall  select  a  pretty  little  girl, 
the  Holt  girl,  I  think,  and" — here  she  waved  her  hands  airily 
— "  'whom  Mrs.  Hauksbee  hath  joined  together  let  no  man 
put  asunder.'     That's  all." 


366  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplip*^ 

"And  when  you  have  yoked  May  Holt  with  the  most 
notorious  detrimental  in  Simla,  and  earned  the  undying  hatred 
of  Mamma  Holt,  what  will  you  do  with  me,  Dispenser  of  the 
Destinies  of  the  Universe?" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  dropped  into  a  low  chair  in  front  of  the 
fire,  and,  chin  in  hand,  gazed  long  and  steadfastly  at  Mrs. 
Mallowe. 

''I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  ^^what  I 
shall  do  with  you,  dear.  It's  obviously  impossible  to  marry 
you  to  some  one  else — your  husband  would  object,  and  the 
experiment  might  not  be  successful  after  all.  I  think  I  shall 
begin  by  preventing  you  from — what  is  it? — 'sleeping  on  ale- 
house benches  and  snoring  in  the  sun.'  " 

"Don't!  I  don't  like  your  quotations.  They  are  so  rude. 
Go  to  the  Library  and  bring  me  new  books." 

"While  you  sleep?  No!  If  you  don't  come  with  me,  I 
shall  spread  your  newest  frock  on  my  'rickshaw-bow,  and 
when  any  one  asks  me  what  I  am  doing,  I  shall  say  that  I 
am  going  to  Phelps's  to  get  it  let  out.  I  shall  take  care  that 
Mrs.  McNamara  sees  me.  Put  your  things  on,  there's  a 
good  girl." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  groanf  d  and  obeyed,  and  the  two  went  off 
to  the  Library,  where  they  found  Mrs.  Delville  and  the  man 
who  went  by  the  nickname  of  The  Dancing  Master.  By  that 
time  Mrs.  Mallowe  was  awake  and  eloquent. 

"That  is  the  Creature!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  with  the  air 
of  one  pointing  out  a  slug  in  the  road. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  MaUowe.  "The  man  is  the  Creature. 
tJgh !  Good-evening,  Mr.  Bent.  I  thought  you  were  com- 
ing to  tea  this  evening." 

"Surely  it  was  for  to-morrow,  was  it  not?"  answered  The 
Dancing  Master.  "I  understood  ...  I  fancied  .  .  ,  I'm 
so  sorry  .  .  .     How  very  unfortunate!  ..." 

But  Mrs.  Mallowe  had  passed  on. 

"For  the  practiced  equivocator  you  said  he  was,"  mur-. 
mured  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  "he  strikes  me  as  a  failure.  Now, 
wherefore  should  he  have  preferred  a  walk  with  The  Dowd 


UT)der  ti)e  Deodars  36? 

to  tea  with  us?  Elective  afiinities,  I  suppose — both  grubby. 
Polly,  I'd  never  forgive  that  woman  as  long  as  the  world 
rolls." 

*'I  forgive  every  woman  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe, 
^*He  will  be  a  sufficient  punishment  for  her.  What  a  com= 
mon  voice  she  has!" 

Mrs.  Deiville's  voice  was  not  pretty,  her  carriage  was 
even  less  lovely,  and  her  raiment  was  strikingly  neglected. 
All  these  facts  Mrs.  Mallowe  absorbed  over  the  top  of  a 
magazine. 

"l!Tow,  what  is  there  in  her?"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  *'Do 
you  see  what  I  meant  about  the  clothes  falling  off?  If  I  were 
a  man  I  would  perish  sooner  than  be  seen  with  that  rag-bagc 
And  yet,  she  has  good  eyes,  but — oh!" 

'^Whatisit?" 

**She  doesn't  know  how  to  use  them!  On  my  Honor,  she 
does  not.  Look !  Oh,  look !  Untidiness  I  can  endure,  but 
ignorance  never!     The  woman's  a  fool." 

"H'sh!     She'll  hear  you." 

''All  the  women  in  Simla  are  fools.  She'll  think  I  mean 
some  one  else.  Now  she's  going  out.  What  a  thoroughly 
objectionable  couple  she  and  The  Dancing  Master  make! 
Which  reminds  me.  Do  you  suppose  they'll  ever  dance 
together?" 

"Wait  and  see.  I  don't  envy  her  the  conversation  of 
The  Dancing  Master — loathly  man!  His  wife  ought  to 
be  up  here  before  long?" 

''Do  you  know  anything  about  him?" 

"Only  what  he  told  me.  It  may  be  all  a  fiction.  He 
married  a  girl  bred  in  the  country,  I  think,  and,  being  an 
honorable,  chivalrous  soul,  told  me  that  he  repented  his  bar- 
gain, and  sent  her  to  her  mother  as  often  as  possible— a  per 
son  who  has  lived  in  the  Doon  since  the  memory  of  man,  and 
goes  to  Mussoorie  when  other  people  go  home.  The  wife  is 
with  her  at  present.     So  he  says." 

"Babies." 

"One  only,  but  he  talks  of  his  wife  in  a  revolting  way. 


S68  U/crl^s  of  I^iidyard   l^iplir^^ 

I  hated  him  for  it.  He  thought  he  was  being  epigrammatic 
and  briUiant." 

*'That  is  a  vice  peculiar  to  men.  I  dislike  him  because 
he  is  generally  in  the  wake  of  some  girl,  to  the  disgust  of  the 
Eligibles.  He  will  persecute  May  Holt  no  more,  unless  I  am 
much  mistaken." 

**ITo.  I  think  Mrs.  Delville  may  occupy  his  attention  for 
a  while." 

**Do  you  suppose  she  knows  that  he  is  the  head  of  a 
family?" 

*'!N"ot  from  his  lips.  He  swore  me  to  eternal  secrecy. 
Wherefore  I  tell  you.     Don't  you  know  that  type  of  man?" 

"Not  intimatelyj  thank  goodness!  As  a  general  rulej 
when  a  man  begins  to  abuse  his  wife  to  me,  I  find  that  the 
Lord  gives  me  wherewith  to  answer  him  according  to  his 
folly,  and  we  part  with  a  coolness  between  us.     I  laugh." 

'*I'm  different.     I've  no  sense  of  humor." 

"Cultivate  it,  then.  It  has  been  my  mainstay  for  more 
years  than  I  care  to  think  about.  A  well-educated  sense  of 
Humor  will  save  a  woman  when  Religion,  Training,  and 
Home  influences  fail.  And  we  may  all  need  salvation  some- 
times." 

**Do  you  suppose  that  the  Delville  woman  has  humor?" 

"Her  dress  bewrays  her.  How  can  a  Thing  who  wears 
her  supplement  under  her  left  arm  have  any  notion  of  the 
fitness  of  things- — much  less  their  folly?  If  she  discards  The 
Dancing  Master  after  having  once  seen  him  dance,  I  may 
respect  her.     Otherwise—" 

"But  are  we  not  both  assuming  a  great  deal  too  much, 
dear?  You  saw  the  woman  at  Peliti's — half  an  hour  later 
you  saw  her  walking  with  The  Dancing  Master — an  hour  later 
you  met  her  here  at  the  Library." 

"Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  remember." 

"Still  with  The  Dancing  Master,  I  admit,  but  why  on  the 
strength  of  that  should  you  imagine — " 

"I  imagine  nothing.  I  have  no  imagination.  I  am  only 
convinced  that  The  Dancing  Master  is  attracted  to  The  Dowd 


Updei   tl?e  Deodars  369 

because  he  is  objectionable  in  every  way  and  she  in  every 
other.  If  I  know  the  man  as  you  have  described  h:n,  he 
holds  his  wife  in  deadly  subjection  at  present." 

**She  is  twenty  years  younger  than  he." 

'*Poor  wretch!  And,  in  the  end,  after  he  has  posed  and 
swaggered  and  lied — he  has  a  mouth  under  that  ragged  mus- 
tache simply  made  for  hes — he  will  be  rewarded  according  to 
his  merits." 

*'I  wonder  what  those  really  are,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

But  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  face  close  to  the  sheK  of  the  new 
books,  was  humming  softly:  "What  shall  he  have  who  killed 
the  Deer  ? ' '  She  was  a  lady  of  unfettered  speech.  One  month 
later,  she  announced  her  intention  of  calling  upon  Mrs.  Del- 
ville.  Both  Mrs.  Hauksbee  and  Mrs.  Mallowe  were  in 
morning  wrappers,  and  there  was  great  peace  in  the  land, 

'*I  should  go  as  I  was,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  "It  would 
be  a  delicate  compliment  to  her  style." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  studied  herself  in  the  glass. 

"Assuming  for  a  moment  that  she  ever  darkened  these 
doors,  I  should  put  on  this  robe,  after  all  the  others,  to  show 
her  what  a  morning- wrapper  ought  to  be.  It  might  enliven 
her.  As  it  is,  I  shall  go  in  the  dove-colored — sweet  emblem 
of  youth  and  innocence —and  shall  put  on  my  new  gloves.'* 

"If  you  really  are  going,  dirty  tan  would  be  too  good; 
and  you  know  that  dove-color  spots  with  the  rain." 

"I  care  not.  I  may  make  her  envious.  At  least  I  shall 
try,  though  one  cannot  expect  very  much  from  a  wonian 
who  puts  a  lace  tucker  into  her  habit." 

"Just  Heavens!     When  did  she  do  that?" 

"Yesterday —riding  with  The  Dancing  Master.  I  met 
them  at  the  back  of  Jakko,  and  the  rain  had  made  the  lace 
lie  down.  To  complete  the  effect,  she  was  wearing  an  im- 
clean  terai  with  the  elastic  under  her  chin.  I  felt  almost  too 
well  content  to  take  the  trouble  to  despise  her. ' ' 

'^'The  Hawley  Boy  was  riding  with  you.  What  did  he 
think?" 

"Does  a  boy  ever  notice  these  things?    Should  I  like  him 


370  U/orks  of  F^udyard  l^iplin<$ 

if  he  did?  He  stared  in  the  rudest  way,  and  just  when  I 
thought  he  had  seen  the  elastic,  he  said;  '^There's  some- 
thing Yery  taking  about  that  face.'  I  rebuked  him  on  the 
spot»     I  don't  approve  of  boys  being  taken  by  feces.'* 

*^  Other  than  your  own.  I  shoaldn^t  be  in  the  least  sur- 
prised if  the  Hawley  Boy  immediately  went  to  call." 

"I  forbid  him.  Let  her  be  satisfied  with  The  Dancing 
Master,  and  his  wife  when  she  comes  up,  I*m  rather  curi- 
ous to  see  Mrs,  Bent  and  the  Delville  woman  together,*' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  dBparted,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour  re- 
turned slightly  flushed. 

"There  is  no  limit  to  the  treachery  of  youth!  I  ordered 
the  Hawley  Boy,  as  he  valued  my  patronage,  not  to  call. 
The  first  person  I  stumble  over — literally  stumble  over — in 
her  poky,  dark  little  drawing-room  is,  of  course,  the  Hawley 
Boy.  She  kept  us  waiting  ten  minutes,  and  then  emerged 
as  though  she  had  been  tipped  out  of  the  dirty-clothes-basket. 
You  know  my  way,  dear,  when  I  am  at  all  put  out.  I  was 
Supeiior,  c-r-r-r-rushingly  Superior!  'Lifted  my  eyes  to 
Heaven,  and  had  heard  of  nothing — 'dropped  my  eyes  on 
the  carpet,  and  'really  didn't  know'— 'played  with  my  card- 
case  and  *  supposed  so.'  The  Hawley  Boy  giggled  like  a 
girl,  and  I  had  to  freeze  him  with  scowls  between  the 
sentences," 

^^  And  she?'* 

"She  sat  in  a  heap  on  the  edge  of  a  couch,  and  managed 
to  convey  the  impression  that  she  was  suffering  from  stomach- 
ache, at  the  very  least.  It  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  ask  after 
her  symptoms.  When  I  rose,  she  grunted  just  like  a  buffalo 
in  the  water — too  lazy  to  move." 

"Are  you  certain — " 

"Am  I  blind,  Polly?  Laziness,  sheer  laziness,  nothing 
else— or  her  garments  were  only  constructed  for  sitting  dc^n 
in.  I  stayed  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  trying  to  penetrate  the 
gloom,  to  guess  what  her  surroundings  were  like,  while  she 
stuck  out  her  tongue.** 

''Lu—cyr 


Ur^der  tl?e  Deodars  B71 

"Well — I'll  withdraw  the  tongue,  though  I^m  sure  if  she 
didn't  do  it  when  I  was  in  the  room,  she  did  the  minute  I 
was  outside.  At  any  rate,  she  lay  in  a  lump  and  grunted. 
Ask  the  Hawley  Boy,  dear.  I  believe  the  grunts  were  meant 
for  sentences,  but  she  spoke  so  indistinctly  that  I  can't  swear 
to  it." 

"You  are  incorrigible,  simply," 

"I  am  not!  Treat  me  civilly,  give  me  peace  with  honor^ 
don't  put  the  only  available  seat  facing  the  window,  and  a 
child  may  eat  jam  in  my  lap  before  Church.  But  I  resent 
being  grunted  at.  Wouldn't  you?  Do  you  suppose  that  she 
communicates  her  views  on  life  and  love  to  The  Dancing 
Master  in  a  set  of  modulated  ^Grmphs'?" 

"You  attach  too  much  importance  to  The  Dancing  Mas- 
ter." 

"He  came  as  we  went,  and  The  Dowd  grew  almost  cor- 
dial at  the  sight  of  him.  He  smiled  greasily,  and  moved 
about  that  darkened  dog-kennel  in  a  suspiciously  familiar 
way." 

"Don't  be  uncharitable.     Any  sin  but  that  I'll  forgive." 

"Listen  to  the  voice  ox  History.  I  am  only  describing 
what  I  saw.  He  entered,  the  heap  on  the  sofa  revived 
slightly,  and  the  Hawley  Boy  and  I  came  away  together. 
He  is  disillusioned,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  lecture  him 
severely  for  going  there.     And  that's  all." 

"Now,  for  pity's  sake,  leave  the  wretched  creature  and 
The  Dancing  Master  alone.     They  never  did  you  any  harm. " 

"No  harm!  To  dress  as  an  example  and  a  stumbHng* 
block  for  half  Simla,  and  then  to  find  this  Person  who  is 
dressed  by  the  hand  of  God — not  that  I  wish  to  disparage 
Him  for  a  moment,  but  you  know  the  tikka-dhurzie  way. 
He  attires  those  lilies  of  the  field— this  Person  draws  the  eyes 
of  men — and  some  of  them  nice  men !  It's  almost  enough  to 
make  one  discard  clothing.     I  told  the  Hawley  Boy  so." 

"And  what  did  that  sweet  youth  do?" 

"Turned  shell-pink  and  looked  across  the  far  blue  hills 
like  a  distressed  cherub.     Am  1  talking  wildly,  Polly?     Let 


572  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplip^j 

me  say  my  say,  and  I  shall  be  calm.  Otherwise  I  may  go 
abroad  and  disturb  Simla  with  a  few  original  reflections. 
Excepting  always  your  own  sweet  self,  there  isn't  a  single 
woman  in  the  land  who  understands  me  when  I  am — what's 
the  word?" 

^'Tete-feUe,'*^  suggested  Mrs.  Mallowe. 

"Exactly!  And  now  let  us  have  tiffin.  The  demands  of 
Society  are  exhausting,  and  as  Mrs.  Delville  says — '*  Here 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  to  the  horror  of  the  khitmatgai^,  lapsed  into 
a  series  of  grunts,  while  Mrs.  Mallowe  stared  in  lazy  surprise. 

*^  'God  gie  us  a  gude  conceit  of  oorselves,'  ^'  said  Mrs. 
Hauksbee,  piously,  returning  to  her  natural  speech.  *'Now, 
in  any  other  woman  that  would  have  been  vulgar.  I  am 
consumed  with  curiosity  to  see  Mrs.  Bent.  I  expect  com- 
plications." 

*^ "Woman  of  one  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe^  shortly,  "all 
complications  are  as  old  as  the  hills !  I  have  lived  through 
or  near  all— alZ— all!" 

"And  yet  do  not  understand  that  men  and  women  never 
behave  twice  ahke.  I  am  old  who  was  young~if  ever  I  put 
my  head  in  your  lap,  you  dear,  big  skeptic,  you  will  leam 
that  my  parting  is  gauze— but  never,  no  never,  have  I  lost 
my  interest  in  men  and  women.  Polly,  I  shall  see  this  busi- 
ness out  to  the  bitter  end." 

"I  am  going  to  sleep,"  said  Mrs,  Mallowe,  calmly.  "I 
never  interfere  with  men  or  women  unless  I  am  compelled," 
and  she  retired  with  dignity  to  her  own  room. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  curiosity  was  not  long  left  ungratified, 
for  Mrs.  Bent  came  up  to  Simla  a  few  os.'^  after  the  con- 
versation faithfully  reported  above,  and  pervaded  the  Mall 
by  her  husband's  side. 

.  "  Behold  1"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  thoughtfully  rubbing  her 
nose.  "That  is  the  last  Hnk  of  the  chain,  if  we  omit  the 
\usband  of  the  Delville,  whoever  he  may  be.  Let  me  con- 
sider. The  Bents  and  the  Delvilles  inhabit  the  same  hotel; 
and  the  Delville  is  detested  by  the  "Waddy—- do  you  know  the 
"Waddy?^who  is  almost  as  big  a  dowd.     The  "Waddy  also 


Updei   tl^e  Deodars  373 

abominates  the  male  Bent,  for  wliicli,  if  her  other  sins  do 
not  weigh  too  heavily,  she  will  eyentually  be  caught  up  to 
Heaven." 

"Don't  be  irreverent,"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  "I  like  Mrs. 
Bent's  face." 

**I  am  discussing  the  "Waddy,"  returned  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
loftily*  **The  Waddy  will  take  the  fem.ale  Bent  apart,  after 
having  borrowed— yes!— everything  that  she  can,  from  hair« 
pins  to  babies'  bottles.  Such,  my  dear,  is  life  in  a  hotel. 
The  Waddy  will  tell  the  female  Bent  facts  and  fictions  about 
The  Dancing  Master  and  The  Dowd." 

"Lucy,  I  should  like  you  better  if  you  were  not  always 
looking  into  people's  back-bedrooms." 

"Anybody  can  look  into  their  front  drawing-rooms;  and 
remember  whatever  I  do,  and  wherever  I  look,  I  never  talk 
—as  the  Waddy  will.  Let  us  hope  that  The  Dancing  Mas» 
ter's  greasy  smile  and  manner  of  the  pedagogue  will  'soften 
the  heart  of  that  cow,'  his  wife.  If  mouths  speak  truth,  I 
should  think  that  little  Mrs.  Bent  could  get  very  angry  on 
occasion." 

"But  what  reason  has  she  for  being  angry?" 

"What  reason!  The  Dancing  Master  in  himself  is  a 
reason.  How  does  it  go?  *If  in  his  life  some  trivial  ©rrors 
fall,  Look  in  his  face  and  you'll  believe  them  all.'  I  am 
prepared  to  credit  any  evil  of  The  Dancing  Master,  because 
I  hate  him  so.  And  The  Dowd  is  so  disgustingly  badly 
dressed- — ^" 

"That  she,  too,  is  capable  of  every  iniquity?  I  always 
prefer  to  believe  the  best  of  everybody.  It  saves  so  much 
trouble." 

"Very  good.  I  prefer  to  believe  the  worst.  It  gaves 
useless  expenditure  of  sympathy.  And  you  may  be  quite 
(pertain  that  the  Waddy  believes  with  me." 

Mrs.  Mallowe  sighed  and  made  no  answer. 

The  conversation  was  holden  after  dinner  while  MrSc 
Hauksbee  .was  dressing  for  a  dance. 

"I  am  too  tired  to  go,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Mallowe;  and  Mrs. 


\ 


374  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip9 

Hauksbee  left  her  in  peace  till  two  in  the  morning,  when  sbf. 
was  aware  of  emphatic  knocking  at  her  door. 

*' Don't  be  very  angry,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  "My 
idiot  of  an  ayah  has  gone  home,  and,  as  I  hope  to  sleep  to- 
night, there  isn't  a  soul  in  the  place  to  unlace  me." 

"Oh,  this  is  too  bad!"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  sulkily. 

"  'Can't  help  it.  I'm  a  lone,  lorn  grass- widow,  but  I 
will  not  sleep  in  my  stays.  And  such  news,  too!  Oh,  do 
unlace  me,  there's  a  darling!  The  Dowd— The  Dancing 
Master — I  and  the  Hawley  Boy —  You  know  the  North 
veranda?" 

"How  can  I  do  anything  if  you  spin  round  like  this?'* 
protested  Mrs.  Mallowe,  fumbling  with  the  knot  of  the 
lace. 

"Oh,  I  forget.  I  must  tell  my  tale  without  the  aid 
of  your  eyes.  Do  you  know  you've  lovely  eyes,  dear? 
Well,  to  begin  with,  I  took  the  Hawley  Boy  to  a  kala 
juggah." 

"Did  he  want  much  taking?" 

"Lots!  There  was  an  arrangement  of  loose-boxes  in 
kanats,    and   she  was  in   the   next   one   talking  to  him.^^ 

"Which?     How?     Explain." 

"You  know  what  I  mean — The  Dowd  and  The  Dancing 
Master.  We  could  hear  every  word,  and  we  listened  shame- 
lessly-— 'specially  the  Hawley  Boy.  Polly,  I  quite  love  that 
woman!" 

"This  is  interesting.  There!  Now  turn  round.  What 
happened?" 

"Onemomemt.  Ah — h!  Blessed  relief .  I've  been  look* 
ing  forward  to  taking  them  off  for  the  last  half  hour — which 
is  ominous  at  my  time  of  life.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  we  list- 
ened and  heard  The  Dowd  drawl  worse  than  ever.  She  drops 
her  final  g's  like  a  barmaid  or  a  blue-blooded  Aid-de-Camp. 
'Look  he'ere,  you're  gettin'  too  fond  o'  me,'  she  said,  and 
The  Dancing  Master  owned  it  was  so  in  language  that  nearly 
made  me  ill.  The  Dowd  reflected  for  a  while.  Then  we 
heard  her  say,  'Lood  he'ere,  Mister  Bent,  why  are  you  such 


Ur^der  tl?e  Deodars  375 

an  aw-ful  liar?'  I  nearly  exploded  while  The  Dancing  Mas- 
ter  denied  the  charge.  It  seems  he  never  told  her  he  was  a 
married  man." 

"I  said  he  wouldn't." 

**  And  she  had  taken  this  to  heart,  on  personal  gfounds,  I 
suppose.  She  drawled  along  for  five  minutes,  reproaching 
him  with  his  perfidy,  and  grew  quite  motherly.  'K"ow  jouVe 
got  a  nice  little  wife  of  your  own— you  have,'  she  said,  ^ She's 
ten  times  too  good  for  a  fat  old  man  like  you,  and,  look  he'ere, 
you  never  told  me  a  word  about  her,  and  I've  been  thinkin' 
about  it  a  good  deal,  and  I  think  you're  a  liar.'  Wasn't  that 
delicious?  The  Dancing  Master  maundered  and  raved  till  the 
Hawley  Boy  suggested  that  he  should  burst  in  and  beat  him. 
His  voice  runs  up  into  an  impassioned  squeak  when  he  is 
afraid.  The  Dowd  must  be  an  extraordinary  womaR.  She 
explained  that  had  he  been  a  bachelor  she  might  not  have 
objected  to  his  devotion;  but  since  h©» was  a  married  man 
and  the  father  of  a  very  nice  baby,  she  considered  him  a 
hypocrite,  and  this  she  repeated  twice.  She  wound  up  her 
drawl  with:  *An'  I'm  tellin'  you  this  because  your  wife  is 
angry  vnth  me,  an'  I  hate  quarrelin'  with  any  other  woman, 
an'  I  Hke  your  wife.  You  know  how  you  have  behaved  for 
the  last  six  weeks.  You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  indeed  you 
shouldn't.  You're  too  old  an'  too  fat.'  Can't  you  imagine 
how  The  Dancing  Master  would  wince  at  that!  *K"ow  go 
away,'  she  said.  *I  don't  want  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
you,  because  I  think  you  are  not  nice.  I'll  stay  he'ere  till 
the  next  dance  begins.'  Did  you  think  that  the  creature  had 
so  much  in  her?" 

"I  never  studied  her  as  closely  as  you  did.  It  sounds 
unnatural.     "What  happened?" 

''The  Dancing  Master  attempted  blandishment,  reproof, 
jocularity,  and  the  style  of  the  Lord  High  Warden,  and  I 
had  almost  to  pinch  the  Hawley  Boy  to  make  him  keep 
quiet.  She  grunted  at  the  end  of  each  sentence,  and,  in  the 
end,  he  went  away  swearing  to  himself,  quite  like  a  man  in 
a  novel.    He  looked  more  objectionable  than  ever.    I  laughed. 


376  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplir)^ 

I  love  that  woman — in  spite  of  her  clothes.     And  now  I'm 
going  to  bed.     What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  shan't  begin  to  think  till  the  morning,"  said  Mrs. 
Mallowe,  yawning.  "Perhaps  she  spoke  the  truth.  They 
do  fly  into  it  by  accident  sometimes." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  account  of  her  eavesdropping  was  an 
ornate  one,  but  truthful  in  the  main.  For  reasons  best 
known  to  herself,  Mrs.  "Shady"  Delville  had  turned  upon 
Mr.  Bent  and  rent  him  lunb  from  limb,  casting  him  away 
limp  and  disconcerted  ere  she  withdrew  the  light  of  her  eyes 
from  him  permanently.  Being  a  man  of  resource,  and  any^ 
thing  but  pleased  in  that  he  had  been  called  both  old  and 
fat,  he  gave  Mrs.  Bent  to  understand  that  he  had,  during 
her  absence  in  the  Doon,  been  the  victim  of  unceasing  perse- 
cution at  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Delville,  and  he  told  the  tale  so 
often  and  with  such  eloquence  that  he  ended  in  believing  it, 
while  his  wife  marveled  at  the  manners  and  customs  of  "some 
women."  When  the  situation  showed  signs  of  languishing, 
Mrs.  Waddy  was  always  on  hand  to  wake  the  smoldering 
fires  of  suspicion  in  Mrs.  Bent's  bosom,  and  to  contribute 
generally  to  the  peace  and  comfort  of  the  hotel.  Mr.  Bent's 
life  was  not  a  happy  one,  for  if  Mrs.  Waddy's  story  were 
true,  he  was,  argued  his  wife,  untrustworthy  to  the  last  de- 
gree. If  his  own  statement  was  true,  his  charms  of  manner 
and  conversation  were  so  great  that  he  needed  constant  sur» 
veillance.  And  he  received  it,  till  he  repented  genuinely  of 
his  marriage  and  neglected  his  personal  appearance.  Mrs. 
Delville  alone  in  the  hotel  was  iinchanged.  She  removed  her 
chair  some  six  paces  toward  the  head  of  the  table,  and  occa- 
sionally in  the  twilight  ventured  on  timid  overtures  of  friend* 
ship  to  Mrs.  Bent,  which  were  repulsed. 

"She  does  it  for  my  sake,"  hinted  the  virtuous  Bent. 

'*A   dangerous    and    designing    woman,"    purred    Mrs 
Waddy. 

Worst  of  all,  every  other  hotel  in  Simla  was  fuH! 

"Polly,  are  you  afraid  of  diphtheria?" 


llT)der  t\)e  Deodars  377 

"Of  nothing  in  the  world  except  small-pox.  Diphtheria 
kills,  but  it  doesn't  disfigure.     "Why  do  you  ask?'* 

**  Because  the  Bent  baby  has  got  it,  and  the  whole  hotel  is 
upside  down  in  consequence.  The  Waddy  has  *set  her  five 
young  on  the  rail'  and  fled.  The  Dancing  Master  fears  for 
his  precious  throat,  and  that  miserable  little  woman,  his  wife, 
has  no  notion  of  wba4i  ought  to  be  done.  She  wanted  to  put 
it  into  a  mustard  l^th — ^for  croup  f 

"Where  did  yon  learn  all  this?" 

"Just  now,  on  the  Mail,  Dr.  Howlea  told  me.  Tha 
Manager  of  the  hotel  is  abusing  the  Bents,  and  the  B^^ts  ase 
abusing  tha  Manner.    They  are  a  feckless  couple.  ^^ 

"Well.    What's  on  your  mind?*' 

"This ;  and  I  know  it's  a  grave  tbix^  to  a^.  Would  f(m 
seriously  object  to  my  bringing  the  child  over  here^  with  its 
mother?'* 

"On  the  most  strict  understanding  that  we  see  nothing  of 
the  Dancing  Master." 

"He  will  be  only  too  glad  to  stay  away.  Polly^  you*re 
an  angel.     The  woman  really  is  at  her  wits'  end.'* 

"And  you  know  nothing  about  her,  careless,  and  would 
hold  her  up  to  public  scorn  if  it  gave  you  a  minute's  amuse- 
ment. Therefore  you  risk  your  life  for  the  sake  of  her  brat. 
No,  Loo,  Pm  not  the  angel.  I  shall  keep  to  my  rooms  and 
avoid  her.  But  do  as  you  please — only  tell  me  why  you 
do  it." 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  eyes  softened;  she  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  back  into  Mrs.  Mallowe's  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  simply. 

"You  dear!" 

"Polly! — and  for  aught  you  knew  you  might  have  taken 
my  fringe  off.  Never  do  that  again  without  warning.  Now 
we'll  get  the  rooms  ready.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  allowed 
to  circulate  in  society  for  a  month." 

"And  I  also.  Thank  goodness  I  shall  at  last  get  all  the 
sleep  I  want." 

Much  to  Mrs.  Bent's  surprise,  she  and  the  baby  were 


^78  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  i^iplii}<$ 

brought  over  to  the  house  almost  before  she  knew  where  she 
was.  Bent  was  devoutly  and  undisguisedly  thankful,  for  he 
was  afraid  of  the  infection,  and  also  hoped  that  a  few  weeks 
in  the  hotel  alone  with  Mrs.  Delville  might  lead  to  some  sort 
of  explanation. 

Mrs.  Bent  had  cast  her  jealousy  to  the  winds  in  her  fear 
for  her  child's  life. 

''"We  can  give  you  good  milk,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to 
her,  "and  our  house  is  much  nearer  to  the  Doctor's  than  the 
hotel,  and  you  won't  feel  as  though  you  were  living  in  a  hos- 
tile camp.  Where  is  the  dear  Mrs.  Waddy?  She  seemed  to 
be  a  particluar  friend  of  yours. " 

"They've  all  left  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bent,  bitterly.  "Mrs. 
"Waddy  went  first.  She  said  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  my- 
self for  introducing  diseases  there,  and  I  am  sure  it  wasn't 
my  fa-ult  that  little  Dora — " 

"How  nice!"  cooed  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  "The  "Waddy  is  an 
infectious  disease  herself — 'more  quickly  caught  than  the 
plague,  and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.'  I  lived  next 
door  to  her  at  the  Elysium,  three  years  ago.  Now,  see,  you 
won't  give  us  the  least  trouble,  and  I've  ornamented  all  the 
house  with  sheets  soaked  in  carbolic.  It  smells  comforting, 
doesn't  it?  Remember  I'm  always  in  call,  and  my  ayah's  at 
your  service  when  yours  goes  to  her  meals,  and  .  .  .  and 
...  if  you  cry  I'll  never  forgive  you." 

Dora  Bent  occupied  her  mother's  unprofitable  attention 
through  the  day  and  the  night.  The  Doctor  called  thrice  in 
the  twenty-four  hours,  and  the  house  reeked  with  the  smell 
of  the  Condy's  Fluid,  chlorine  water,  and  carbolic  acid 
washes.  Mrs.  Mallowe  kept  to  her  own  rooms — she  con 
sidered  that  she  had  made  sufficient  concessions  in  the  cause 
of  humanity — and  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  more  esteemed  by  the 
Doctor  as  a  help  in  the  sick-room  than  the  half-distraught 
mother. 

"I  know  nothing  of  illness,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  the 
Doctor.     "Only  tell  me  what  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it." 

"Keep  that  crazy  woman  from  kissing  the  child,  and  let 


Upder  tl?e  Deodars  379 

her  have  as  little  to  do  with  the  nursing  as  you  possibly 
can,"  said  the  Doctor;  '*I'd  turn  her  out  of  the  sick-room^ 
but  that  I  honestly  believe  she'd  die  of  anxiety.  She  is 
less  than  no  good,  and  I  depend  on  you  and  the  ayahsj 
remember. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  accepted  the  responsibility,  even  though 
it  painted  olive  hollows  under  her  eyes  and  forced  her  into 
her  oldest  dresses.  Mrs.  Bent  clung  to  her  with  more  than 
child-like  faith. 

"I  know  you'll  make  Dora  well,  won't  you?"  she  said  at 
least  twenty  times  a  day;  and  twenty  times  a  day  MrSo 
Hauksbee  answered  valiantly:  ''Of  course  I  will." 

But  Dora  did  not  improve,  and  the  Doctor  seemed  to  be 
always  in  the  house. 

''There's  some  danger  of  the  thing  taking  a  bad  turn,'* 
he  said;  "I'll  come  over  between  three  and  four  in  the  morn= 
ing  to-morrow. " 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  "He  never  told 
me  what  the  turn  would  be !  My  education  has  been  horribly 
neglected;  and  I  have  only  this  foolish  mother- woman  to 
fall  back  upon. " 

The  night  wore  through  slowly,  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee  dozed 
in  a  chair  by  the  fire.  There  was  a  dance  at  the  Viceregal 
Lodge,  and  she  dreamed  of  it  till  she  was  aware  of  Mrs. 
Bent's  anxious  eyes  staring  into  her  own. 

"Wake  up!  /Wake  up!  Do  something!"  cried  Mrs. 
Bent,  piteously.  "Dora's  choking  to  death!  Do  you  mean 
to  let  her  die?" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  jumped  to  her  feet  and  bent  over  the  bed. 
The  child  was  fighting  for  breath,  while  the  mother  wrung 
her  hands  in  despair. 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  She  won't  stay 
still !  I  can't  hold  her.  Why  didn't  the  Doctor  say  this  was 
coming?"  screamed  Mrs.  Bent.  "  WonH  you  help  me?  She's 
dying!" 

"I — I've  never  seen  a  child  die  before!"  stammered  Mrs. 
;  Hauksbee,  feebly,  and  then — ^let  no  one  blame  her  weakness 


S80  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  K^pllr?^ 

after  tlie  strain  of  lone  watching — she  broke  down,  and  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands.  The  ayahs  on  the  threshold 
snored  peacefully.  i 

There  was  a  rattle  of  'rickshaw  wheels  below,  the  clash' 
of  an  opening  door,  a  heavy  step  on  the  stairs,  and  Mrs. 
Delville  entered  to  find  Mrs.  Bent  screaming  for  the  Doctor 
as  she  ran  round  the  room*  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  her  hands  to 
her  ears,  and  her  face  buried  in  the  chintz  of  a  chair,  was 
quivering  with  pain  at  each  cry  from  the  bed,  and  murmur* 
ing:  '* Thank  God,  I  never  bore  a  child!  Oh!  thank  God,  I 
never  bore  a  child!" 

Mrs.  Delville  looked  at  the  bed  for  an  instant,  took  Mrs, 
Bent  by  the  shoulders,  and  said  quietly  j  **Get  me  some  caus- 
tic.     Be  quick."  i 

The  mother  obeyed  mechanically,  Mrs.  Delville  had 
thrown  herself  down  by  the  side  of  the  child  and  was 
opening  its  mouth. 

'*0h,  you're  killing  her!"  cried  Mrs.  Bent.  ** Where's- 
the  Doctor?    Leave  her  alone!" 

Mrs.  Delville  made  no  reply  for  a  minute,  but  busied  her- 
self with  the  child. 

'*!N"ow  the  caustic,  and  hold  a  lamp  behind  my  shoulder. 
Will  you  do  as  you  are  told?     The  acid-bottle,  if  you  don't' 
know  what  I  mean,"  she  said. 

A  second  time  Mrs.  Delville  bent  over  the  child.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee,  her  face  still  hidden,  sobbed  and  shivered.  One 
of  the  ayahs  staggered  sleepily  into  the  room,  yawning: 
"Doctor  Sahib  hai." 

Mrs.  Delville  turned  her  head. 

"You're  only  just  in  time,"  she  said.  *'It  was  chokin" 
her  when  I  came,  an'  I've  burned  it." 

"There  was  no  sign  of  the  membrane  getting  to  the  air- 
passages  after  the  last  steaming.     It  was  the  general  weak- 
ness I  feared,"  said  the  Doctor,  half   to  himself,  and   he; 
whispered  as  he  looked :   "You've  done  what  I  should  have 
been  afraid  to  do  without  consultation. ' ' 

"She  was  dyin',"  said  Mrs.  Delville,  under  her  breath. 


Hinder  tl^e  Deodars  381 

'*Can  you  do  anythin'?     What  a  mercy  it  was  I  went  to  the 
dance ! " 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  raised  her  head. 

''Is  it  all  over?"  she  gasped.  "I'm  useless.  I'm  worse 
than  useless!     What  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  stared  at  Mrs.  Delville,  and  Mrs.  Bent,  realizing  for  the 
first  time  who  was  the  Goddess  from  the  Machine,  stared  also. 

Then  Mrs.  Delville  made  explanation,  putting  on  a  dirty 
long  glove  and  smoothing  a  crumpled  and  ill-fitting  ball-dress. 

"I  was  at  the  dance,  an'  the  Doctor  was  tellin'  me  about 
your  baby  bein'  so  ill.  So  I  came  away  early,  an'  your  door 
was  open,  an'  I — I — lost  my  boy  this  way  six  months  ago, 
an'  I've  been  tryin'  to  forget  it  ever  since,  an'  I — I — I  am 
very  sorry  for,  intrudin'  an'  anythin'  that  has  happened." 

Mrs.  Bent  was  putting  out  the  Doctor's  eye  with  a  lamp 
as  he  stooped  over  Dora.  "Take  it  away,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. "I  think  the  child  will  do,  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Delville. 
I  should  have  come  too  late,  but,  I  assure  you" — he  was 
addressing  himself  to  Mrs.  Delville — "I  had  not  the  faintest 
reason  to  expect  this.  The  membrane  must  have  grown  like 
a  mushroom.  Will  one  of  you  ladies  help  me,  please?' ' 
'  He  had  reason  for  his  concluding  sentence.  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee had  thrown  herself  into  Mrs.  Delville 's  arms,  where  she 
was  weeping  copiously,  and  Mrs.  Bent  was  unpicturesquely 
mixed  up  with  both,  while  from  the  triple  tangle  came  the 
sound  of  many  sobs  and  much  promiscuous  kissing. 

"Good  gracious!  I've  spoiled  all  your  beautiful  roses!" 
said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  lifting  her  head  from  the  lump  of 
crushed  gum  and  calico  atrocities  on  Mrs.  Delville's  shoulder 
and  hurrying  to  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Delville  picked  up  her  shawl,  and  slouched  out  of  the 
room,  mopping  her  eyes  with  the  glove  that  she  had  not  put  on. 

"I  always  said  she  was  more  than  a  woman,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  hysterically,  "and  that  proves  it!" 

Six  weeks  later,  Mrs.  Bent  and  Dora  had  returned  to  the 
hotel.     Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  come  out  of  the  Valley  of  Hu- 


382  U/orl^s  of  r^udyard  l^iplip^ 

miliation,  had  ceased  to  reproach  herself  for  her  collapse  in 
an  hour  of  bitter  need,  and  was  even  beginning  to  direct  the 
affairs  of  the  world  as  before. 

"So  nobody  died,  and  everything  went  off  as  it  should, 
and  I  kissed  The  Dowd.  Polly,  I  feel  so  old.  Does  it  show 
in  my  face?" 

"Kisses  don't,  as  a  rule,  do  they?  Of  course  you  know 
what  the  result  of  The  Dowd's  providential  arrival  has  been.'^ 

"They  ought  to  build  her  a  statue — only  no  sculptor  dare 
reproduce  those  skirts. " 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  quietly.  "She  has  found  an- 
other reward.  The  Dancing  Master  has  been  smirking  through 
Simla,  giving  every  one  to  understand  that  she  came  because 
of  her  undying  love  for  him — for  him — to  save  his  child,  and 
all  Simla  naturally  believes  this." 

"But  Mrs.  Bent—" 

"Mrs.  Bent  believes  it  more  than  any  one  else.  She  won't 
speak  to  The  Dowd  now.  IsnH  The  Dancing  Master  an  angel?" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  lifted  up  her  voice  and  raged  till  bedtime. 
The  doors  of  the  two  rooms  stood  open. 

"Polly,"  said  a  voice  from  the  darkness,  "what  did  that 
American-heiress-globe-trotter  girl  say  last  season  when  she 
was  tipped  out  of  her  'rickshaw  turning  a  corner?  Some  absurd 
adjective  that  made  the  man  who  picked  her  up  explode." 

"  *  Paltry,'  "  said  Mrs.  Mallowe.  "Through  her  nose — 
like  this — 'Ha-ow  pahltry' !" 

"Exactly,"  said  the  voice.     "Ha-ow  pahltry  it  all  is  I" 

"Which?" 

"Everything — Babies,  Diphtheria,  Mrs.  Bent  and  the 
Dancing  Master,  I  whooping  in  a  chair,  and  The  Dowd 
dropping  in  from  the  clouds.  I  wonder  what  the  motive 
was — all  the  motives." 

"Um!" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Don't  ask  me.     She  was  a  woman.     Go  to  sleep.'* 

END  OF  "under  THE  DEODARS" 


DEPARTMENTAL   DITTIES 

BARRACK-ROOM  BALLADS  AND 

OTHER  VERSES 


883 


I  HAVE  eaten  your  bread  and  salt, 
I  have  drunk  your  water  and  wine, 

The  deaths  ye  died  I  have  watched  besido^ 
And  the  Hves  that  ye  led  were  mine. 

Was  there  aught  that  I  did  not  share 

In  vigil  or  toil  or  ease — 
One  joy  or  woe  that  I  did  not  know. 

Dear  hearts  across  the  seas? 

I  have  written  the  tale  of  our  life 
For  a  sheltered  people's  mirth. 

In  jesting  guise— but  ye  are  wise. 
And  ye  know  what  the  jest  is  worths 


384 


DEPARTHENTAL  DITTIES 


GENERAL    SUMMARY 

We  are  very  slightly  changed 
From  the  semi-apes  who  rang^ed 

India's  prehistoric  clay; 
Whoso  drew  the  longest  boWj 
Ran  his  brother  down,  you  know^ 

As  we  run  men  down  to-daj* 

"Dowb,"  the  first  of  all  his  mm. 
Met  the  Mammoth  face  to  fa<^ 

On  the  lake  or  in  the  cave, 
Stole  the  steadiest  canoe. 
Ate  the  quarry  others  slew, 

Died — and  took  the  finest  gravs. 

When  they  scratched  the  reindeer-base^ 
Some  one  made  the  sketch  his  own. 

Filched  it  from  the  artist— then» 
Even  in  those  early  days, 
Won  a  simple  Viceroy's  praise 

Through  the  toil  of  other  men. 

Ere  they  hewed  the  Sphinx's  vissg^ 
Favoritism  governed  kissage, 
Even  as  it  does  in  this  age. 

Who  shall  doubt  the  secret  hid 
Under  Cheops'  pyramid 
Was  that  the  contractor  did 
Cheops  out  of  several  millions? 
/ol.  3.  885  «7 


U/orl^s  of  I^adyard  \ipllT)(^ 

Or  that  Joseph's  sudden  rise 
To  Comptroller  of  Supplies 
Was  a  fraud  of  monstrous  size 

On  King  Pharaoh's  swart  Civiliansl 

Thus,  the  artless  songs  I  sing 
Do  not  deal  with  anything 

Kew  or  never  said  before. 
As  it  was  in  the  beginning. 
Is  to-day  official  sinning, 

And  shall  be  for  evermore. 


ARMY    HEADQUARTERS 

Old  is  the  song  that  I  sing — 

Old  as  my  unpaid  bills- 
Old  as  the  chicken  that  hitmutgars  bring 

Men  at  dak-bungalows — old  as  the  Hillgu 

Ahasubrus  Jenkins  of  the  ''Operatic  Own'' 
Was  dowered,  with  a  tenor  voice  of  S'Mjjer-Santley  tone. 
His  views  on  equitation  were,  perhaps,  a  trifle  queer; 
He  had  no  seat  worth  mentioning,  but  oh  1  he  had  an  ear. 

He  clubbed  his  wretched  company  a  dozen  times  a  day, 

He  used  to  quit  his  charger  in  a  parabolic  way, 

His  method  of  saluting  was  the  joy  of  all  beholders. 

But  Ahasuerus  Jenkins  had  a  head  upon  his  shouldars.         j|d| 

He  took  two  months  to  Simla  when  the  year  was  at  the  ^ring, 
And  underneath  the  deodars  eternally  did  singe 
He  warbled  like  a  bulbul,  but  particularly  at 
Oomelia  Agrippina,  who  was  musical  and  fat. 

She  controlled  a  humble  husband,  who,  in  turn,  controlled  a 

Dept., 

Where  Cornelia  Agrippina's  human  singing-birds  were  kept 
From  April  to  October  on  a  plump  retaining  fee, 
Supplied,  of  course,  per  mensem,  by  the  Indian  Treasury. 


Departmental  Ditties  887 

Cornelia  used  to  sing  with  him,  and  Jenkins  used  to  play; 
He  praised  unblushingly  her  notes,  for  he  was  false  as  they : 
So  when  the  winds  of  April  turned  the  budding  ros^  brown, 
Cornelia  told  her  husband:  "Tom,  you  mustn't  send  him 
down." 

They  haled  him  from  his  regiment  which  didn*t  much  t^r^ 

him; 
They  found  for  him  an  oflBce-stool,  and  on  that  stool  they  t^t 

him. 
To  play  with  maps  and  catalogues  three  idle  hours  a  day. 
And  draw  his  plump  retaining  fee— which  means  his  dcmbk 

pay, 

K"ow,  ever  after  dinner^  when  the  coffee-cups  are  brought, 
Ahasuerus  waileth  o'er  the  gTand  pianoforte; 
And.  thanks  to  fair  Cornelia,  his  fame  hath  waxBn  great, 
And  Ahasuerus  Jenkins  is  a  power  in  the  State. 


STUDY   OF   AN   ELEVATION. 
INDIAN    INK 

This  ditty  is  a  string  of  lies. 

But— how  the  deuce  did  Gubbins  rise? 

PoTiPHAR  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Stands  at  the  top  of  the  tree; 
And  I  muse  in  my  bed  on  the  reasons  that  led 
To  the  hoisting  of  Potiphar  G. 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Is  seven  years  jimior  to  Me; 
Each  bridge  that  he  makes  he  either  buckles  or  bi©aks,. 
And  his  work  is  as  rough  as  he. 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Is  coarse  as  a  chimpanzee ; 
And  I  can't  understand  why  you  gave  him  your  ba^d^ 
Lovely  Mehitabel  Lee. 


U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  l^ipllp^ 

Potipliar  Gubbins,  C.  E., 
Is  dear  to  the  Powers  that  Be ; 
For  They  bow  and  They  smile  in  an  affable  style 
"Which  is  seldom  accorded  to  Me. 

Potiphar  Gubbins,  0.  E., 
Is  certain  as  certain  can  be 
Of  a  Mghly-paid  post  which  is  claimed  by  a  host 
Of  seniors — ^including  Me. 

Careless  and  lazy  is  he, 
Greatly  inferior  to  Me, 
What  is  the  spell  that  you  manage  so  well. 
Commonplace  Potiphar  G.? 

Lovely  Mehitabel  Lee, 
Let  me  inquire  of  thee, 
Should  I  have  riz  to  what  Potiphar  is, 

Hadst  thou  been  mated  to  Me? 


A   LEGEND   OF  THE   FOREIGN    OFFICE 

This  is  the  reason  why  Rustum  Beg, 

Rajah  of  Kolazai, 
Drinketh  the  "simpkin"  and  brandy  peg, 

Maketh  the  money  to  fly, 
Vexeth  a  Government,  tender  and  kind. 
Also — ^but  this  is  a  detail — blind. 

Rustum  Beg  of  Kolazai— sHghtly  backward  native  state— 
Lusted  for  a  0.  S.  I. — -so  began  to  sanitate. 
Built  a  Jail  and  Hospital — nearly  built  a  City  drain— 
TiU  his  faithful  subjects  all  thought  their  ruler  was  insane. 

Strange  departures  made  he  then—yea,  Departments  stranger 

still, 
Half  a  dozen  Enghshmen  helped  the  Rajah  with  a  will, 
Talked  of  noble  aims  and  high,  hinted  of  a  future  fine 
For  the  State  of  Kolazai,  on  a  strictly  Western  line. 


Departmei)tal  Ditties  389 

Bajah  Rustum  held  his  peace;  lowered  octroi  dues  a  half; 

Organized  a  State  Police;  purified  the  Civil  Staff; 

Settled  cess  and  tax  afresh  in  a  very  liberal  way; 

Cut  temptations  of  the  flesh— also  cut  the  Bukhshi's  pay; 

Boused  his  Secretariat  to  a  fine  Mahratta  fury. 
By  a  Hookum  hinting  at  supervision  of  dasturi; 
Turned  the  State  of  Kolazai  very  nearly  upside-down; 
When  the  end  of  May  was  nigh, waited  his  achievement  Cfown, 

Then  the  Birthday  Honors  came.     Sad  to  state  and  sad  to  seej 
Stood  against  the  Rajah's  name  nothing  more  than  O.  I.  E.f 

•  •  •  •  •  e  •• 

Things  were  lively  for  a  week  in  the  State  of  Kolazai. 
Even  now  the  people  speak  of  that  time  regretfully. 

How  he  disendowed  the  Jail— stopped  at  once  the  City  drain; 
Turned  to  beauty  fair  and  frail — got  his  senses  back  again; 
Doubled  taxes,  cesses,  all ;  cleared  away  each  new-built  thana; 
Turned  the  two-lakh  Hospital  into  a  superb  Zenana; 

Heaped  upon  the  Bukhshi  Sahib  wealth  and  honors  manifold; 
Clad  himself  in  Eastern  garb — squeezed  his  people  as  of  old. 
Happy,  happy  Kolazai !     Never  more  will  Rustum  Beg 
Play  to  catch  the  Viceroy's  eye.    He  prefers  the'*simpkin'^  peg. 


THE   STORY   OF   URIAH 

*'Now  there  were  two  men  in  one  city;  the  one  rich  asd 
©ther  poor." 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta 

Because  they  told  him  to. 
He  left  his  wife  at  Simla 

On  three-fourths  his  monthly  screw  t 
Jack  Barrett  died  at  Quetta 

Ere  the  next  month's  pay  he  drew« 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta. 
He  didn't  understand 


S90  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{ipUT)6 

The  reason  of  his  transfer 

From  the  pleasant  mountain-land! 

The  season  was  September, 
And  it  killed  him  out  of  hand. 

Jack  Barrett  went  to  Quetta, 
And  there  gave  up  the  ghost, 

Attempting  two  men*s  duty 
In  that  very  healthy  post ; 

And  Mrs,  Barrett  mourned  for  him 
Five  lively  months  at  most. 

Jack  Barrett's  bones  at  Quetta 
Enjoy  profound  repose; 

But  I  shouldn't  be  astonished 
If  now  his  spirit  knows 

The  reason  of  his  transfer 
From  the  Himalayan  snows. 

And,  when  the  Last  Great  Bugle  OaU 

Adown  the  Hurnai  throbs, 
When  the  last  grim  joke  is  entered 

In  the  big  black  Book  of  JobSg 
And  Quetta  graveyards  give  again 

Their  victims  to  the  air, 
I  shouldn't  like  to  be  the  man 

"Who  sent  Jack  Barrett  there. 


THE    POST   THAT   FITTED 

Though  tangled  and  twisted  the  course  of  true  love, 

This  ditty  explains 
No  tangle's  so  tangled  it  cannot  improve 

If  the  Lover  has  brains. 

Ere  the  steamer  bore  him  Eastward,  Sleary  was  engaged  to 

marry 
An  attractive  girl  at  Tunbridge,  whom  he  called  "my  little 

Carrie,  • ' 


Departmental  Ditties  391 

Sleary's  pay  was  very  modest;  Sleary  was  the  other  way. 
Who  can  cook  a  two-plate  dinner  on  eight  paltry  dibs  a  day? 
Long  he  pondered  o'er  the  question  in  his  scantly  furnished 

quarters — 
Then  proposed  to  Minnie  Boffkin,  eldest  of  Judge  Boff kin's 

daughters. 
Certainly  an  impecunious  Subaltern  was  not  a  catch, 
But  the  Boffkins  knew  that  Minnie  mightn't  make  another 

match. 

So  they  recognized  the  business,  and,  to  feed  and  clothe  the 

bride, 
Got  him  made  a  Something  Something  somewhere  on  the 

Bombay  side. 
Anyhow,  the  billet  carried  pay  enough  for  him  to  marry-— 
As  the  artless  Sleary  put  it:   "Just  the  thing  for  me  and 

Carrie." 

Did  he,  therefore,  jilt  Miss  Boffkin — impulse  of  a  baser  mind? 
No !     He  started  epileptic  fits  of  an  appalling  kind. 
(Of  his  modus  operandi  only  this  much  I  could  gather  i 
"Pears'  shaving  sticks  will  give  you  little  taste  and  lots  of 
lather.") 

Frequently  in  public  places  his  affiiction  used  to  smite 
Sleary  with  distressing  vigor — always  in  the  Boffkins'  sight. 
Ere  a  week  was  over  Minnie  weepingly  returned  his  ring, 
Told  him  his  "unhappy  weakness"  stopped  all  thought  of 
marrying. 

Sleary  bore  the  information  with  a  chastened  holy  joy — 

Epileptic  fits  don't  matter  in  Political  employ— 

Wired  three  short  words  to  Carrie — took  his  ticket,  packed 

his  kit — 
Bade  farewell  to  Minnie  Boffkin  in  one  last,  long,  lingering  fit. 

Four  weeks  later,  Carrie  Sleary  read — and  laughed  until  she 

wept — 
Mrs.  Boffkin's  warning  letter  on  the  "wretched  epilept." 
Year  by  year,  in  pious  patience,  vengeful  Mrs.  Boffkin  sits 
AYaiting  for  the  Sleary  babies  to  develop  Sleary's  fits. 


B92  Worlds  of  F^udyard  l^ipIiQ^ 


PUBLIC    WASTE 

Walpole  talks  of  **a  man  and  his  pnoa 
List  to  a  ditty  queer — 

The  sale  of  a  Deputy -Acting- Vice- 
Resident-Engineer, 

Bought  like  a  bullock,  hoof  and  hide, 

By  the  Little  Tin  Gods  on  the  Mountain  ^da. 

By  the  Laws  of  the  Family  Circle  'tis  written  in  letters  of 
brass 

Tiiat  only  a  Colonel  from  Chatham  can  manage  the  Railways 
of  State, 

Because  of  the  gold  on  his  breeks,  and  the  subjects  wherein 
he  must  pass; 

Because  in  all  matters  that  deal  not  with  Railways  his  knowl- 
edge is  great. 

ITow  Exeter  Battleby  Tring  had  labored  from  boyhood  to  eld 
On  the  Lines  of  the  East  and  the  West,  and  eke  of  the  North 

and  South ; 
Many  Lines  had  he  built  and  surveyed — important  the  posts 

which  he  held; 
And  the  Lords  of  the  Iron  Horse  were  dumb  when  he  opened 

his  mouth. 

Black  as  the  raven  his  garb,  and  his  heresies  jettier  still — 

Hinting  that  Railways  required  lifetimes  of  study  and  knowl- 
edge; 

Never  clanked  sword  by  his  side — ^Vauban  he  knew  not,  nor 
driU— 

Nor  was  his  name  on  the  Hst  of  the  men  who  had  passed 
through  the  ' '  College. ' ' 

"Wherefore  the  Little  Tin  Gods  harried  then*  little  tin  souls, 
Seeing  he  came  not  from  Chatham,  jingled  no  spurs  at  his 
heelsj 


Departmental  Ditties  393 

Knowing  that,  nevertheless,  was  he  first  on  the  Government 

rolls 
For  the  billet  of  **  Railway  Instructor  to  Little  Tin  Gods  on 

Wheels/' 

Letters  not  seldom  they  wrote  him,  "having  the  honor  to 

state," 
It  would  he  better  for  aU  men  if  he  were  laid  on  the  shelf : 
Much  would  accrue  to  his  bank-book,  and  he  consented  to 

wait 
Until  the  Little  Tin  Gods  built  him  a  berth  for  himself. 

"Special,  well  paid,  and  exempt  from  the  Law  of  the  Fifty 

and  Five, 
Even  to  Ninety  and  ITine" — these  were  the  terms  of  the  pact : 
Thus  did  the  Little  Tin  Gods  (long  may  Their  Highnesses 

thrive !) 
Silence  his  mouth  with  rupees,  keeping  their  Circle  intact ; 

Appointing  a  Colonel  from  Chatham  who  managed  the  Bhamo 

State  Line 
(The  which  was  one  mile  and  one  furlong— a  guaranteed 

twenty-inch  gauge). 
So  Exeter  Battleby  Tring  consented  his  claims  to  resign, 
And  died,  on  four  thousand  a  month,  in  the  ninetieth  yeai  of 

Ms  age. 

DELILAH 

We  have  another  Viceroy  now,  those  days  are  dead  and  done. 
Of  Delilah  Aberyswith  and  depraved  Ulysses  Gunne. 

Delilah  Aberyswith  was  a  lady — not  too  young — 
With  a  perfect  taste  in  dresses,  and  a  badly»bitted  tongue, 
With  a  thirst  for  information,  and  a  greater  thirst  for  praige^ 
And  a  little  house  in  Simla,  in  the  Prehistoric  Days. 

By  reason  of  her  marriage  to  a  gentleman  in  power, 
Delilah  was  acquainted  with  the  gossip  of  the  houTf 
And  many  little  secrets,  of  a  half-official  kind. 
Were  whispered  to  Dehlah,  and  she  bore  them  all  in  mind. 


394  MforUis  of  P^udyard  I^iplii>^ 

She  patronized  extensively  a  man,  Ulysses  Gunne, 
Whose  mode  of  earning  money  was  a  low  and  shameful  onCc 
He  wrote  for  divers  papers,  which,  as  everybody  knows, 
Is  worse  than  serving  in  a  shop  or  scaring  off  the  crows. 

He  praised  her  '* queenly  beauty' '  first ;  and,  later  on,  he  hinted 
At  the  "vastness  of  her  intellect"  with  compliment  unstinted. 
He  went  with  her  a-riding,  and  his  love  for  her  was  such 
That  he  lent  her  all  his  horses,  and — she  galled  them  very 
much. 

One  day,  They  brewed  a  secret  of  a  fine  financial  sortj 
It  related  to  Appointments,  to  a  Man  and  a  Report. 
'Twas  almost  worth  the  keeping  (only  seven  people  knew  it), 
And  Gunne  rose  up  to  seek  the  truth  and  patiently  ensue  it. 

It  was  a  Viceroy's  Secret,  but— perhaps  the  wine  was  red — 
Perhaps  an  Aged  Councilor  had  lost  his  aged  head — 
Perhaps   Delilah's    eyes  were    bright  —  Dehlah's  whispers 

sweet — 
The  Aged  Member  told  her  what  'twere  treason  to  repeat. 

Ulysses  went  a-riding,  and  they  talked  of  love  and  flowers; 
Ulysses  went  a-calling,  and  he  called  for  several  hours; 
Ulysses  went  a-waltzing,  and  Delilah  helped  him  dance — 
Ulysses  let  the  waltzes  go,  and  waited  for  his  chance. 

The  summer  sun  was  setting,  and  the  summer  air  was  stiU, 
The  couple  went  a- walking  in  the  shade  of  Summer  Hill, 
The  wasteful  sunset  faded  out  in  turkis-green  and  gold, 
Ulysses  pleaded  softly,  and  .  .  •  that  bad  Delilah  told! 

E"ext  mom,  a  startled  Empire  learned  the  all-important  news; 
Kext  week,  the  Aged  Councilor  was  shaking  in  his  shoes; 
IText  month,  I  met  Delilah,  and  she  did  not  show  the  least 
Hesitation  in  affirming  that  Ulysses  was  a  "beast.'* 

We  have  another  Viceroy  now,  those  days  are  dead  and  done. 
Of  Delilah  Aberyswith  and  most  mean  Ulysses  Gunne! 


Departmental  Ditties  395 


WHAT   HAPPENED 

HuRREE  Chunder  Mookerjee,  pride  of  Bow  Bazaar^ 
Owner  of  a  native  press,  *'Barrishter-at-Lar," 
Waited  on  the  Government  with  a  claim  to  wear 
Sabers  by  the  bucketful,  rifles  by  the  pair. 

Then  the  Indian  Government  winked  a  wicked  winkj 
Said  to  Chunder  Mookerjee;  "Stick  to  pen  and  ink. 
They  are  safer  implements ;  but,  if  you  insist, 
We  will  let  you  carry  arms  wheresoe'er  you  list," 

Hurree  Chunder  Mookerjee  sought  the  gunsmith  and 
Bought  the  tuber  of  Lancaster,  Ballard,  Dean,  and  Bland, 
Bought  a  shiny  bowie-knife,  bought  a  town-made  sword. 
Jingled  like  a  carriage-horse  when  he  went  abroad. 

But  the  Indian  Government,  always  keen  to  please, 
Also  gave  permission  to  horrid  men  like-  these — 
Yar  Mahommed  Yusufzai,  down  to  kill  or  steal, 
Chimbu  Singh  from  Bikaneer,  Tantia  the  Bhil. 

Killar  Khan  the  Marri  chief,  Jowar  Singh  the  Sikh, 
Nubbee  Baksh  Punjabi  Jat,  Abdul  Huq  Rafiq— 
He  was  a  Wahabi;  last,  little  Boh  Hla-oo 
Took  advantage  of  the  act — took  a  Snider  too. 

They  were  unenlightened  men,  Ballard  knew  them  not. 
They  procured  their  swords  and  guns  chiefly  on  the  spot, 
And  the  lore  of  centuries,  plus  a  hundred  fights, 
Made  them  slow  to  disregard  one  another's  rights. 

With  a  unanimity  dear  to  patriot  hearts 

AU  those  hairy  gentlemen  out  of  foreign  parts 

Said:  '*The  good  old  days  are  back— let  us  go  to  war!" 

Swaggered  down  the  Grand  Trunk  Koad,  into  Bow  Bazaar^ 

ISTubbee  Baksh  Punjabi  Jat  found  a  hide-bound  flail, 
Chimbu  Singh  from  Bikaneer  oiled  his  Tonk  jezail. 


896  U/ori^s  of  F^udyard  K^plii)<$ 

Yar  Mahommed  Yusufzai  spat  and  grinned  with  glee 
As  he  ground  the  butcher-knife  of  the  Khyberee. 

Jowar  Bingh  the  Sikh  procured  saber,  quoit,  and  ma<;e, 
Abdul  Huq,  Wahabi,  took  the  dagger  from  its  place. 
While  amid  the  jungle-grass  danced  and  grinned  and  jabbered 
Little  Boh  Hla-oo  and  cleared  the  dah-blade  from  the  sc?ib- 
bard. 

What  became  of  Mookerjee?    Soothly^  who  can  smy? 
Yar  Mahommed  only  grins  in  a  nasty  way, 
Jowar  Singh  is  reticent,  Ohimbu  Singh  is  mute. 
But  the  belts  ©f  them  all  simply  bulge  with  loot. 

What  became  of  Ballard's  gunsf    Afghans  black  and  grubby 
Sell  them  for  their  silver  weight  to  the  men  of  Pubbii 
And  tl^  shiny  bowie-knife  and  the  town-made  sword  ara 
Hanging  in  a  Marri  camp  just  across  the  Border.  , 

What  became  of  Mookerjee?     Ask  Mahommed  Yar, 
Prodding  Siva's  sacred  bull  down  the  Bow  Bazaar. 
Speak  to  placid  Kubbee  Baksh— question  land  and  sea— ^ 
Ask  the  Indian  Congress  men — only  don't  ask  usel 


PINK   DOMINOES 

^'They  are  fools  who  kiss  and  t«ii" 
Wisely  has  the  poet  sung. 
Man  may  hold  all  sorts  of  poetig 
2f  he'll  only  hold  his  tongue. 

JENNY  and  Me  were  engaged,  you  see^ 
On  the  eve  of  the  Fancy  Ball; 

80  a  kiss  or  two  was  nothing  to  you 
Or  any  one  else  at  all. 

Jenny  would  go  in  a  domino-— 
Pretty  and  pink  but  warm ; 

While  I  attended,  clad  in  a  splendid 
Austrian  uniform. 


Departmental  Ditties  397 

Kow  we  had  arranged,  through  notes  exchanged 

Early  that  afternoon, 
At  Number  Four  to  waltz  no  more. 

But  to  sit  in  the  dusk  and  spoon. 

(I  wish  you  to  see  that  Jenny  and  Me 

Had  barely  exchanged  our  troth; 
So  a  kiss  or  two  was  strictly  due 

By,  from,  and  between  us  both,) 

When  Three  was  over,  an  eager  loFer, 

I  fled  to  the  gloom  outside; 
And  a  Domino  came  out  also 

"Whom  I  took  for  my  future  bride. 

That  is  to  say,  in  a  casual  way, 

I  slipped  my  arm  around  her ; 
With  a  kiss  or  two  (which  is  nothing  to  Jou% 

And  ready  to  kiss  I  found  her. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  the  name  she  sai^ 

Was  certainly  not  my  own; 
But  ere  I  could  speak,  with  a  smothered  shr?ek 

She  fled  and  left  me  alone. 

Then  Jenny  came,  and  I  saw  with  shame 

She'd  doffed  her  domino; 
And  I  had  embraced  an  alien  waist— 

But  I  did  not  tell  her  so. 

^ext  mom  I  knew  that  there  were  two 

Dominoes  pink,  and  one 
Had  cloaked  the  spouse  of  Sir  Juhan  Vons^ 

Our  big  political  gun. 

Sir  J.  was  old,  and  her  hair  was  gold. 

And  her  eye  was  a  blue  cerulean ; 
And  the  name  she  said  when  she  turned  her  ht^ 

Was  not  in  the  least  like  "Julian." 


398  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii}($ 

!N"ow  wasn't  it  nice,  when  want  of  pice 
Forbade  us  twain  to  marry, 

That  old  Sir  J.,  in  the  kindest  way, 
Made  me  his  Becretarryf 


THE    MAN   WHO    COULD   WRITE 

Shun— shun  the  Bowl  I    That  fatal,  facile  drink 

Has  ruined  many  geese  who  dipped  their  quills  in*t, 

Bribe,  murder,  marry,  but  steer  clear  of  Ink 
Save  when  you  write  receipts  for  paid-up  bills  in't. 

There  may  be  silver  in  the  "blue-black" — all 

I  know  of  is  the  iron  and  the  gall. 

Boanerges  Blitzen,  servant  of  the  Queen, 
Is  a  dismal  failure — is  a  Might-have-been, 
In  a  luckless  mome^  t  he  discovered  men 
Rise  to  high  position  through  a  ready  pen. 

Boanerges  Blitzen  argued,  therefore:  "I 
With  the  selfsame  weapon  can  attatin  as  high." 
Only  he  did  not  possess,  when  he  made  the  trial, 
Wicked  wit  of  C-lv-n,  irony  of  L 1. 

(Men  who  spar  with  Government  need,  to  back  their 

blows, 
Something  more  than  ordinary  journalistic  prose,) 

Never  young  Civilian's  prospects  were  so  bright. 
Till  an  Indian  paper  found  that  he  could  write : 
Never  young  Civilian's  prospects  were  so  dark, 
When  the  wretched  Blitzen  wrote  to  make  his  mark. 

Certainly  he  scored  it,  bold  and  black  and  firm. 
In  that  Indian  paper — made  his  seniors  squirm,    " 
Quoted  office  scandals,  wrote  the  tactless  truth — 
Was  there  ever  known  a  more  misguided  youth? 

When  the  Rag  he  wrote  for  praised  his  plucky  game^ 
Boanerges  Blitzen  felt  that  this  was  Fame : 


Departmental  Ditties  399 

W"lien  the  men  he  wrote  of  shook  their  heads  and 

swore, 
Boanerges  Blitzen  only  wrote  the  more. 

Posed  as  Young  Ithuriel,  resolute  and  grim. 
Till  he  found  promotion  didn't  come  to  him; 
Till  he  found  that  reprimands  weekly  were  his  lot. 
And  his  many  Districts  curiously  hot. 

Till  he  found  his  furlough  strangely  hard  to  win, 

Boanerges  Blitzen  didn't  care  a  pin : 

Then  it  seemed  to  dawn  on  him  something  wasn't 

right — 
Boanerges  Blitzen  put  it  down  to  ** spite." 

Languished  in  a  District  desolate  and  dry ; 

"Watched  the  Local  Government  yearly  pass  him  by; 

"Wondered  where  the  hitch  was;  called  it  most  unfair. 
•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

That  was  seven  years  ago — and  he  still  is  there. 


MUNICIPAL 

•*Why  is  my  District  death-rate  lowf" 

Said  Binks  of  Hezabad. 
•*Welis,  drains,  and  sewage-outfalls  are 

My  own  peculiar  fad. 
I  learnt  a  lesson  once.     It  ran 
"Thus,"  quoth  that  most  veracious  man:--» 

It  was  an  August  evening,  and,  in  snowy  garments  olad$ 
I  paid  a  round  of  visits  in  the  lines  of  Hezabad ; 
When,  presently,  my  Waler  saw,  and  did  not  like  at  all, 
A  Commissariat  elephant  careering  down  the  Mall. 

I  couldn't  see  the  driver,  and  across  my  mind  it  rushed 
That  that  Commissariat  elephant  had  suddenly  gone  musth. 
I  didn't  care  to  meet  him,  and  I  couldn't  well  get  down, 
So  I  let  the  Waler  have  it,  and  we  headed  for  the  town. 


400  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  t^iplip^ 

The  buggy  was  a  new  one,  and,  praise  Dykes,  it  stood  the 

strain, 
Till  the  Waler  jumped  a  bullock  just  above  the  City  Drain ; 
And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  a  hurricane  of  squeals, 
And  the  creature  making  toothpicks  of  my  five-foot  patent 

wheels. 

He  seemed  to  want  the  owner,  so  I  fled,  distraught  with  fear, 
To  the  Main  Drain  sewage-outfall  while  he  snorted  in  my  ear — 
Reached  the  four-foot  drain-head  safely,  and,  in  darkness  and 

despair, 
Felt  the  brute's  proboscis  fingering  my  terror-stiffened  hair. 

Heard  it  trumpet  on  my  shoulder — tried  to  crawl  a  little 

higher — 
Found  the  Main  Drain  sewage-outfall  blocked,  some  eight 

feet  up,  with  mire ; 
And,  for  twenty  reeking  minutes.  Sir,  my  very  marrow  froze, 
While  the  trunk  was  feeling  blindly  for  a  purchase  on  my  toes ! 

It  missed  me  by  a  fraction,  but  my  hair  was  turning  gray 
Before  they  called  the  drivers  up  and  dragged  the  brute  away. 
Then  I  sought  the  City  Elders,  and  my  words  were  very  plain. 
They  flushed  that  four-foot  drain- head,  and — it  never  choked 
again. 

You  may  hold  with  surface-drainage,  and  the  sun-f or-garbage 

cure. 
Till  you've  been  a  periwinkle  shrinking  coyly  up  a  sewer. 
I  believe  in  well-flushed  culverts  .... 

This  is  why  the  death-rate's  small ; 
And,  if  you  don't  believe  me,  get  shikarred  yourself.     That's 

all. 


Departmei^tal   Ditties  401 


A  CODE  OF  MORALS 

Lest  you  should  think  this  story  true, 
I  merely  mention  I 
Evolved  it  lately.    'Tis  a  most 
Unmitigated  misstatement. 

Fow  Jones  had  left  his  new- wed  bride  to  keep  his  house  in 

order, 
And  hied  away  to  the  Hurrum  Hills  above  the  Afghan  border. 
To  sit  on  a  rock  with  a  heliograph;  but  ere  he  left  he  taught 
His  wife  the  working  of  the  Code  that  sets  the  miles  at  naught. 

And  Love  had  made  him  very  sage,  as  I^ature  made  her  fair; 

So  Cupid  and  Apollo  linked,  per  heliograph,  the  pair. 

At  dawn,  across  the  Hurrum  Hills,  he  flashed  her  counsel 

wise — 
At  e'en,  the  dying  sunset  bore  her  husband's  homiii^. 

He  warned  her  'gainst  seductive  youths  in  scarlet  clad  and 

gold, 
As  much  as  'gainst  the  blandishments  paternal  of  the  old; 
But  kept  his  gravest  warnings  for  (hereby  the  ditty  hangs) 
That  snowy-haired  Lothario,  Lieutenant-General  Bangs. 

'Twas  General  Bangs,  with  Aid  and  Staff,  that  tittupped  on 

the  way, 
When  they  beheld  a  heliograph  tempestuously  at  play ; 
They  thought  of  Border  risings,  and  of  stations  sacked  and 

burned — 
So  stopped  to  take  the  message  down — and  this  is  what  they 

learned : 

"Dash  dot  dot,  dot,  dot  dash,  dot  dash  dot"  twice.     The 

General  swore. 
**Was  ever  General  Officer  addressed  as  'dear'  before? 
*My  love,'  i'  faith  I     'My  Duck,'  Gadzooksl     'My  darling 

popsy-wop!' 
Spirit  of  great  Lord  Wolseley,  who  is  on  that  mountain  top?" 


\ 


402  U/orks  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

The  artless  Aid-de-camp  was  mute ;  the  gilded  Staff  were  still. 

As,  dumb  with  pent-up  mirth,  they  booked  that  m.essage  from 
the  hill; 

For,  clear  as  summer's  lightning  flare,  the  husband's  warn- 
ing ran : 

^' Don't  dance  or  ride  with  General  Bangs — a  most  immoral 
man." 

(At  dawn,  across  the  Hurrum  Hills,  he  flashed  her  counsel 

wise — 
But,  howsoever  Love  be  blind,  the  world  at  large  hath  eyes.) 
With  damnatory  dot  and  dash  he  heliographed  his  wife 
Some  interesting  details  of  the  General's  private  life. 

The  artless  Aid-de-camp  was  mute ;   the  shining  Staff  wera 

still, 
And  red  and  ever  redder  grew  the  General's  shaven  gill. 
And  this  is  what  he  said  at  last  (his  feelings  matter  not) : 
"I  think  we've  tapped  a  private  line.     Hi  I     Threes  about 

there!     Troti" 


All  honor  unto  Bangs,  for  ne'er  did  Jones  thereafter  know 
By  word  or  act  official  who  read  off  that  helio, ; 
But  the  tale  is  on  the  Frontier,  and  from  Michni  to  Moolfan 
They  know  the  worthy  General  as  *  'that  most  immoral  man. " 


I 


THE  LAST   DEPARTMENT 

Twelve  hundred  million  men  are  spread 

About  this  Earth,  and  I  and  You 
Wonder,  when  You  and  I  are  dead, 

What  will  those  luckless  millions  do  ? 

^^IToNE  whole  or  clean,"  we  cry,  "or  free  from  staia 
Of  favor."     Wait  a  while,  till  we  attain 

The  Last  Department,  where  nor  fraud  nor  f ools^ 
Nor  grade  nor  greed,  shall  trouble  us  again. 


Depart/RSQtal  Ditties  ~       403 

Fear,  Favor,  or  Affection — what  are  tliese 
To  the  grim  Head  who  claims  our  services? 

I  never  knew  a  wife  or  interest  yet 
Delay  that  pukka  step,  miscalled  "decease'*  | 

When  leave,  long  overdue,  none  can  deny; 
When  idleness  of  all  Eternity 

Becomes  our  furlough,  and  the  marigold 
Our  thriftless,  bullion-minting  Treasury. 

Transferred  to  the  Eternal  Settlement, 
Each  in  his  strait,  wood-scantled  office  pent. 

No  longer  Brown  reverses  Smith's  appeals. 
Or  Jones  records  his  Minute  of  Dissent. 

And  One,  long  since  a  pillar  of  the  Court, 

As  mud  between  the  beams  thereof  is  wrought; 

And  One  who  wrote  on  phosphates  for  the  cr<^ 
Is  subject-matter  of  his  own  Report. 

(These  be  the  glorious  ends  whereto  we  pass- 
Let  Him  who  Is,  go  call  on  Him  who  Was; 

And  He  shall  see  the  mallie  steals  the  slab 
For  currie -grinder,  and  for  goats  the  grass.) 

A  breath  of  wind,  a  Border  bullet's  flight, 
A  draught  of  water,  or  a  horse's  fright — 

The  droning  of  the  fat  Sheristadar 
Ceases,  the  punkah  stops,  and  falls  the  nigM 

For  you  or  Me.     Do  those  who  live  decline 
The  step  that  offers,  or  their  work  resign? 
Trust  me,  To-day's  Most  Indispensables, 
Five  hundred  men  can  take  your  place  or  mliso. 


■■/. 


BARRACK«ROOM   BALLADS 


DANNY   DEEVER 

^' What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for?"  said  Files-on-Farade,    i 
*'To  turn  you  out,  to  turn  you  out,^^  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
*'What  makes  you  look  so  white,  so  white?**  said  Files»on- 

Farade« 
"I'm  dreadin'  what  I've  got  to  wateh,*'  the  Color-Sergeant 
said. 
For  they're  hangin*  Danny  Deever,  you  c^n  'ear  the 

Dead  March  play,  f 

The  regiment's  in  'oilow  square — ^they're  hangin' 

him  to-day; 
They've  taken  of  his  buttons  off  an'  cut  his  stripes 

away. 
An'  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  momin'. 

**What  makes  the  rear-rank  breathe  so  'ard?"  said  Files-on- 


**It's  bitter  cold,  it's  bitter  cold,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
**What  makes  that  front-rank  man  fall  down?"  says  Files- 

on-Parade. 
"A  touch  of  sun,  a  touch  of  sun,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  they  are  marchin* 

of  'im  round, 
They  'ave  'alted  Danny  Deever  by  *is  coffin  on  the 

ground; 
An'  'e'll  swing  in  'arf  a  minute  for  a  sneakin',  shoot- 
in'  hound— 
O  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  momin'! 


it  fTTiJ, 


*'  'Is  cot  was  right- 'and  cot  to  mine,"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
'E's  sleepin'  out  an'  far  to-night,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said, 

(404) 


I 


BarraeK-Room  Ballads 

"I've  drunk  'is  beer  a  score  o'  times,"  said  Files-on-Parade» 
*'  'E's  drinkia'  bitter  beer  alone,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 

They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you  must  maik 

'im  to  'is  place, 
For  'e  shot  a  comrade  sleepin' — ^you  must  look  'im 

in  the  face; 
Nine  'undred  of  'is  county  an'  the  regiment's  dis 

grace, 
While  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  momin'. 

** What's  that  so  black  agin  the  sun?"   said  Files-on-Parade« 
"It's  Danny  fightin'  'ard  for  life,"  the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
"What's  that  that  whimpers  over'ead?"  said  Files-on-Paradec 
"It's  Danny's  soul  that's  passin'  now,"  the  Color-Sergeant 
said. 

For  they're  done  with  Danny  Deever,  you  can  'ear 

the  quickstep  play, 
The  regiment's  in  column,  an'  they're  marchin'  us 

away ; 
Hoi  the  young  recruits  are  shakin',  an'  they'll  want 

their  beer  to-day, 
After  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  momia'a 


"TOMMY" 


I  WENT  into  a  public-'ouse  to  get  a  pint  o*  beer. 
The  publican  'e  up  an'  sez,  "We  serve  no  red-coats  here.'* 
The  girls  be'ind  the  bar  they  laughed  an'  giggled  fit  to  die, 
I  outs  into  the  street  again,  an'  to  myself  sez  I : 

0  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Tommy 

go  away"; 
But  it's  "Thank  you,  Mister  Atkins, "  when  the  band 

begins  to  play. 
The  band  begins  to  play,  my  boys,  the  band  begins 

to  play, 
O  it's  "Thank  you.  Mister  Atkins,"  when  the  band 
begins  to  play. 


406  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  t^iplip^ 

I  went  into  a  theater  as  sober  as  could  be, 
They  give  a  drunk  civilian  room,  but  'adn't  none  for  me; 
They  sent  me  to  the  gallery  or  round  the  music- 'alls, 
But  when  it  comes  to  fightin',  Lord!  they'll  shove  me  in  the 
stalls. 
For  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  **Tommy 

wait  outside" ; 
But  it's  ** Special  train  for  Atkins,'*  when  the  troop- 
er's on  the  tide, 
The  troopship's  on  the  tide,  my  boys,  etc. 

O  makin'  mock  o^  uniforms  that  guard  you  while  you  sleep 
Is  cheaper  than  them  uniforms,  an'  they're  starvation  cheap; 
An*  hustlin'  drunken  sodgers  when  they're  goin'  large  a  bit 
Is  five  times  better  business  than  paradin'  in  full  kit. 

Then  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  ^'^ Tommy, 

'ow's  yer  soul?" 
But  it's  *'Thin  red  hne  of  'eroes"  when  the  drums 

begin  to  roll, 
The  drums  begin  to  roll,  my  boys,  etc. 

We  aren't  no  thin  red  'eroes,  nor  we  aren't  no  blackguards  too, 
But  single  men  in  barricks,  most  remarkable  like  you; 
An*  if  sometimes  our  conduck  isn't  all  your  fancy  paints, 
Why,  single  men  in  barricks  don't  grow  into  plastej*  saints. 
While  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  **  Tom- 
my fall  be'ind;" 
But  it's  "Please  to  walk  in  front,  sir,"  when  there's 

trouble  in  the  wind, 
There's  trouble  in  the  wind,  my  boys,  etc. 

Yoti  talk  o'  better  food  for  us,  an'  schools,  an'  fires,  an'  all  i 
We  ^11  wait  for  extry  rations  if  you  treat  us  rationaL 
Don't  mess  about  the  cook-room  slops,  but  prove  it  to  our  face 
The  Widow's  uniform  is  not  the  soldier-man's  disgrace. 

For  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an'  "Chuck  i 

him  out,  the  brute!" 
But  it's  *' Savior  of  'is  country"  when  the  guns  begin 
to  shoot; 


Barracl^-r^oom  Ballads  407 

An*  it's  Tommy  this,  an'  Tommy  that,  an*  anything 

you  please ; 
An'  Tommy  ain't  a  bloom  in'  fool — you  bet  that 

Tommy  sees! 


"FUZZY   WUZZV 

{Soudan  Expeditionary  Force) 

We've  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas. 
An'  some  of  'em  was  brave  an'  some  was  nots 
The  Paythan  an'  the  Zulu  an'  Burmese; 
But  the  Fuzzy  was  the  finest  o'  the  lot. 
We  never  got  a  ha'porth's  change  of  'im  ? 

'E  squatted  in  the  scrub  an'  'ocked  our  'orses, 
*E  cut  our  sentries  up  at  Snsikim, 
An*  'e  played  the  cat  an'  banjo  with  our  forces. 
So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  at  your  'ome 

in  the  Sowdan ; 
You're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen  but  a  first- 
class  fightin'  man; 
We  gives  you  your  certifikit,  an'  if  you  want 

it  signed 
We'll  come  an'  'ave  a  romp  with  you  when- 
ever you're  incHned. 

We  took  our  chanst  among  the  Kyber  'ills, 

The  Boers  knocked  us  silly  at  a  mile, 
The  Burman  guv  us  Irriwaddy  chills. 

An'  a  Zulu  impi  dished  us  up  in  styles 
But  all  we  ever  got  from  such  as  they 

Was  pop  to  what  the  Fuzzy  made  us  swalleri 
We  'eld  our  bloomin'  ow*,  the  papers  say, 
But  man  for  man  the  Fuzzy  knocked  us  'oHer. 
Then  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  an'  the 

missis  and  the  kid; 
Our  orders  was  to  break  you,  an'  of  course 
we  went  an'  did. 


40S  U/orKs  of  P^udyard  I^iplii)^ 

We  sloshed  you  with  Martinis,  an'  it  wasn't 

'ardly  fair; 
But  for  all  the  odds  agin  you,  Fuzzy-Wu% 

you  bruk  the  square, 

^M  *asn't  got  no  papers  of  'is  own, 

*E  'asn't  got  no  medals  nor  rewards, 
S©  we  must  certify  the  sMll  'e*s  shown 

In  iisin*  of  'is  long  two-'anded  swords: 
Wlien  Vs  'oppin*  in  an'  out  among  the  bu^ 

With  'is  coffin«'eaded  shield  an'  shoTel-speap, 
Jt  *appy  day  with  Fuzzy  on  the  rush 
WM  last  a  'ealthy  Tommy  for  a  year. 

JBo  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzgy-Wuzzy,  an*  your 

friends  which  is  no  more, 
If  we  *adn't  lost  some  messmates  we  would 

'elp  you  to  deplore; 
But  give  an'  take's  the  gospel^  an'  we'H  call 

the  bargain  fair, 
For  if  you  'ave  lost  more  than  us,  yoa 
cnunpled  up  the  square! 

*E  rashes  at  the  smoke  when  we  let  drire, 

Ari'j  before  we  know,  'e's  'ackin'  at  our  'ead; 
^E  5  all  'ot  sand  an'  ginger  when  alive. 

An'  'e's  generally  shammin'  when  'e's  dead. 
*E'3  a  daisy,  'e's  a  ducky,  'e's  a  lamb! 
'  E's  a  injia-rubber  idiot  on  the  spree, 
■  E  3  the  on*y  thing  that  doesn't  care  a  damn 
For  the  Regiment  o'  British  Infantree. 

So  'ere's  to  you.  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  at  your 

'ome  in  the  Sowdan; 
You're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen  but  a  first- 
class  fightin' man ; 
An'  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  with  your 

'ayrick  'ead  of  'air— 
You  big  black  boundin'  beggar^— for  you 
bruk  a  British  square. 


BarraoK-I^oom  Ballads  409 


OONTS! 

(Northern  India  Transport  Train) 

Wot  makes  the  soldier's  'eart  to  penk,  wot  makes  'im  to 

perspire? 
It  isn't  standin'  up  to  charge  or  lyin*  down  to  fire ; 
But  it's  everlastin'  waitin'  on  a  everlastin'  road 
For  the  commissariat  camel  an'  'is  commissariat  load. 

O  the  oont,  *  O  the  oont,  O  the  commissariat  oontf 
With  'is  silly  neck  a-hobbin'  like  a  basket  full  o' 

snakes; 
We  packs  'im  hke  a  idol,  an'  you  ought  to  *ear  'im 

grunt, 
An'  when  we  gets  'im  loaded  up  'is  blessed  girth- 
rope  breaks. 

Wot  makes  the  rear-guard  swear  so   'ard  when  night  is 

drorin'  in, 
An'  every  native  follower  is  shiverin'  for  'is  skin? 
It  ain't  the  chanst  o'  bein'  rushed  by  Paythans  fruna  th©  'iUs, 
It's  the  commissariat  camel  puttin'  on  'is  blessed  frills! 
O  the  oont,  O  the  oont,  O  the  hairy  scary  oontf 
A-trippin'  over  tent-ropes  when  we've  got  the  night- 
alarm  ; 
We  socks  'im  with  a  stretcher-pole  an'  'eads  'im  off 

in  front, 
An'  when  we've  saved  'is  bloomin'  life  *e  chaws  our 
bloomin'  arm. 

The  'orse  'e  knows  above  a  bit,  the  bullock's  but  a  fool, 
The  elephant's  a  gentleman,  the  baggage-mule's  a  mule; 
But  the  commissariat  cam-u-el,  when  all  is  said  an'  dons, 
'E's  a  devil  an'  a  ostrich  an'  a  orphan-child  in  one. 


♦Camel ;  oo  is  pronounced  like  u  in  "bull,"  but  by  Mr.  Atkins  to 
rhyme  with  "front." 
Vol.  3.  tB 


410  U/or^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplii}^ 

O  the  oont,  O  the  oont,  O  thf^  Gawd-forsaken  oont! 
The  'lunpy-lumpy  'ummin'-bird  a-singin'  where  'e 

hes, 
'E's  blocked  the  'ole  division  from  the  rear-guard  to 

the  front, 
An'  when  we  gets  'im  up  again — the  beggar  goes 

an'  dies! 

'E'll  gall  an'  chafe  an'  lame  an'  fight;  'e  smells  most  awful 

vile ; 
'E'll  lose  'imself  forever  if  you  let  'im  stray  a  mile; 
'E's  game  to  graze  the  'ole  day  long  an'  'owl  the  'ole  night 

through,  • 

An'  when  'e  comes  to  greasy  ground  'e  splits  'isself  in  two. 
O  the  oonty  O  the  oont,  O  the  fioppin',  droppin'  oo7itf 
When  'is  long  legs  give  from  under  an'  'is  meltin' 

eye  is  dim, 
The  tribes  is  up  be'ind  us  an'  the  tribes  is  out  in  front. 
It  ain't  no  jam  for  Tommy,  but  it's  kites  and  crows 
for  'im. 

So  when  the  cruel  march  is  done  an*  when  the  roads  is  blind, 
An'  when  we  sees  the  camp  in  front  an'  'ears  the  shots  be'ind, 
O  then  we  strips  'is  saddle  off,  and  all  'is  woes  is  past: 
'E  thinks  on  us  that  used  'im  so,  an'  gets  revenge  at  last. 

O  the  oont,  O  the  oont,  O  tha  floatin',  bloatin'  oont! 

The  late  lamented  camel  in  the  water-cut  he  lies; 

We  keeps  a  mile  behind  'im  an'  we  keeps  a  mile  in 
front, 

But  'e  gets  into  the  drinkin'  casks,  and  then  o'  course 
we  dies. 


LOOT 

If  you've  ever  stole  a  pheasant-egg  be'ind  the  keeper's  back. 
If  you've  ever  snigged  the  washin'  frum  the  line. 

If  you've  ever  crammed  a  gander  in  your  bloomin'  'aversack, 
You  will  understand  this  Httle  song  o'  mine. 


BarraeK-H^o^  Ballads  411 

But  the  service  rules  are  'ard,  an'  frum  sucli  we  are  de* 
barred, 
For  the  same  with  British  morals  does  not  suit  {Comet: 
Toot  I  toot!)— 
W^j^  they  call  a  man  a  robber  if  'e  stuffs  'is  marchin'  clobber 

With  the— 
(Chorus,)     Loot  loo!    Lulu  I  lulu  I     Loo!  loo!    Loot!  loot! 
loot! 

'Ow  the  loot! 
Bloomin'  loot! 
That's  the  thing  to  make  the  boys  git  up  an*  shoot! 
It's  the  same  with  dogs  an'  men, 
If  you'd  make  'em  come  again 
Clap  'em  forward  with  a  Loo!  loo!     Lulu!     Loot! 
{ff)  Whoopee!     Tear   'im,    puppy!     Loo!    loo!     Lulu  I 
Loot!  loot!  loot! 

If  you've  knocked  a  nigger  edgeways  when  'e's  thrustin'  fo? 
your  life, 
You  must  leave  'im  very  careful  wh^re  'e  fell; 
An'  may  thank  your  stars  an'  gaiters  if  you  didn't  feel  ^is 
knife 
That  you  ain't  told  off  to  bury  him  as  weU. 
Then  the  sweatin'   Tommies  wonder  as  they  spade  the  beg- 
gars under 
Why  lootin'  should  be  entered  as  a  crime; 
So  if  my  song  you'll  'ear,  I  will  learn  you  plain  an  clear 
'Ow  to  pay  yourself  for  fightin'  over  time. 
{Chorus.)     With  the  loot,  etc. 

l^ow  remember  when  you're  'acking  round  a  gilded  Burma 
god 
That  'is  eyes  is  very  often  precious  stones ; 
An'  if  you  treat  a  nigger  to  a  dose  o'  cleanin'-rod 

'E's  like  to  show  you  everything  'e  ovms. 
When  'e  won't  prodooce  no  more,  pour  some  water  on  the  floor 
Where  you  'ear  it  answer  'ollow  to  the   boot   {Comet: 
Toot!  toot!)— 


412  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard   I^iplir>^ 

"When  the  ground  begins  to  sink,  shove  your  baynick  down 
the  chink, 
An'  you're  sure  to  touch  the — 
{Chorus.)     Loo!  loo!     Lulu!     Loot!  loot!  loot! 

'Ow  the  loot,  etc. 

When  from  'ouse  to  'ouse  you're  'untin'  you  must  always 
work  in  pairs— 
It  'alves  the  gain,  but  safer  you  will  find — 
For  a  single  man  gits  bottled  on  them  twisty- wisty  stairs, 

An'  a  woman  comes  and  clobs  'im  from  be'ind. 
When  you've  turned  'em  inside  out,  an'  it  seems  beyond  a 
doubt 
As  if  there  weren't  enough  to  dust  a  flute  {Cornet:    Toot! 
toot!)— 
Before  you  sling  your  'ook,  at  the  'ouse-tops  take  a  look, 
For  it's  underneath  the  tiles  they  'ide  the  loot. 
{Chorus.)     'Ow  the  loot,  etc. 

You  can  mostly  square  a  Sergint  an'  a  Quartermaster  too, 

If  you  only  take  the  proper  way  to  go ; 
I  could  never  keep  my  pickin's,  but  I've  learned  you  all  I 
knew — 
An'  don't  you  never  say  I  told  you  so. 
An'  now  I'll  bid  good-by,  for  I'm  gettin'  rather  dry, 

An'  I  see  another  tunin'  up  to  toot  {Cornet:  Toot!  toot!)— 
So  'ore's  good  luck  to  those  that  wears  the  Widow's  clo'es. 
An'  the  Devil  send  'em  all  they  want  o'  loot  I 
{Chorus.)     Yes,  the  loot, 
Bloomin'  loot. 
In  the  tunic  an'  the  mess-tin  an'  the  boot  I 
It's  the  same  with  dogs  an'  men, 
If  you'd  make  'em  come  again 
Whoop  'eni  forward  with  the  Loo!  loo!     Lulu  I' 

Loot !  loot !  loot ! 
Heeya!     Sick  'im,  puppy  1     Loo  I   loo!     Lulu! 
Loot!   loot!  loot! 


BarraeK"Room  Ballads  413 


SOLDIER,    SOLDIER 

**SoLDiER,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 

Why  don't  you  march  with  m.y  true  love?'* 
"We're  fresh  from  off  the  ship,  an'  'e's  maybe 
give  the  slip, 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 
New  love!    True  love! 
Best  go  look  for  a  new  love. 
The  dead  they  cannot  rise,  an*  yovJd  better 

dry  your  eyes, 
An*  you*d  best  go  look  for  a  new  love, 

**  Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 

What  did  you  see  o'  my  true  love?" 
**I  see  'im  serve  the  Queen  in  a  suit  o'  rifle-green, 

An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

"Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars. 

Did  ye  see  no  more  o'  my  true  love?" 
*'I  see  'im  runnin'  by  when  the  shots  begun  to 

fly- 
But  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

**  Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 
Did  aught  take  'arm  to  my  true  love?" 

*'I  couldn't  see  the  fight,  for  the  smoke  it  hkf 
so  white— 
An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love.*' 

**Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 

I'll  up  an'  tend  to  my  true  love!" 
**  'E's  lying  on  the  dead  with  a  bullet  through 
is  'ead, 

An*  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

**  Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 
I'll  lie  down  an'  die  with  my  true  love  I'* 


414  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplir>9 

*'Tlie  pit  we  dug'U  'ide  'im  an'  twenty  men 
beside  'ini — 

An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  iove." 
"Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 

Do  you  bring  no  sign  from  my  true  love?" 
**I  bring  a  lock  of  'air  that  'e  alius  used  to  wear, 

An'  you'd  best  go  look  for  a  new  love." 

** Soldier,  soldier  come  from  the  wars, 

O  then  I  know  it's  true  I've  lost  my  true 
love!" 
**An'  I  tell  you  truth  again — when  you've  lost 
the  feel  o'  pain 
You'd  best  take  me  for  your  true  love." 
True  love!    New  love! 
Best  take  Hm  for  a  neiv  love. 
The  dead  they  cannot  rise,  an^  you^d  better 

dry  your  eyes, 
An''  you^d  best  take  Hm  for  your  true  love. 


THE   SONS    OF   THE   WIDOW 

'Ave  you  'eard  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor 

With  a  hairy  gold  crown  on  'er  'ead? 
She  'as  ships  on  the  foam — she  'as  millions  at  'ome, 
An'  she  pays  us  poor  beggars  in  red. 
(Ow,  poor  beggars  in  red!) 
There's  'er  nick  on  the  cavalry  'orses. 

There's  'er  mark  on  the  medical  stores — 
An'  'er  troopers  you'll  find  with  a  fair  wind  be'ind 
That  takes  us  to  various  wars. 

(Poor  beggars ! — barbarious  wars !) 

Then  'ere's  to  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 
An'  'ere's  to  the  stores  an'  the  guns, 
The  men  an'  the  'orses  what  makes  up 
the  forces 
O'  Missis  Victorier's  sons. 
(Poor  beggars! — Victorier's  sons!) 


BarraG^-I^oom  Ballads  415 

Walk  wide  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 

For  'alf  o'  creation  she  owns : 
We  'ave  bought  'er  the  same  with  the  sword  an* 
the  flame, 
An'  we've  salted  it  down  with  our  bones. 

(Poor  beggars ! — it's  blue  with  our  bones  I) 
Hands  off  o'  the  sons  of  the  Widow, 
Hands  off  o'  the  goods  in  'er  shop, 
For  the  Kings  must  come  down  an'  the  Emperors 
frown 
When  the  Widow  at  Windsor  says  ''Stop!" 

(Poor  beggars! — we're  sent  to  say  "Stop!") 
Then  'ore's  to  the  Lodge  o'  the  Widow, 
From  the  Pole  to  the  Tropics  it  runs — - 
To  the  Lodge  that  we  tile  with  the  rank 
an'  the  file, 
An'  open  in  forms  with  the  guns. 
(Poor  beggars! — it's  always  them  guns!) 

We  'ave  'eard  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor 

It's  safest  to  let  'er  alone : 
For  'er  sentries  we  stand  by  the  sea  an'  the  land 
Wherever  the  bugles  are  blown. 

(Poor  beggars! — an'  don't  we  get  blown!) 
Take  'old  o'  the  wings  o'  the  mornin'. 

An'  flop  round  the  earth  till  you're  dead; 
But  you  won't  get  away  from  the  tune  that  they 
play 
To  the  bloomin'  old  rag  over'ead. 

(Poor  beggars! — it's  'ot  over'ead!) 

Then  'ore's  to  the  sons  o'  the  Widow, 

Wherever,  'owever  they  roam. 
'Ere's  all  they  desire,  an'  if  they  require 
A  speedy  return  to  their  'ome. 
(Poor  beggars! — they'll  never  see  'omel) 


416  U/or^s  of  F^adyard  t^iplip^ 


TROOPIN* 

(Our  Army  in  the  East) 

Troopin',  troopin',  troopin'  to  the  sea: 
'Ere's  September  come  again — -the  six-year  men  are  free. 
O  leave  the  dead  be'ind  us,  for  they  cannot  come  away 
To  where  the  ship's  a-coahn'  up  that  takes  us  'ome  to-day. 

We're  goin'  'ome,  we're  goin'  'ome, 

Our  ship  is  at  the  shore, 

An'  you  must  pack  your  'aversack, 

For  we  won't  come  back  no  more. 

Ho,  don't  you  grieve  for  me, 

My  lovely  Mary- Anne, 

For  I'll  marry  you  yit  on  a  fourp'ny  bit 

As  a  time-expired  man. 

The  ^* Malabar's"  in  'arbor  with  the  "  Jumner"  at  'er  tail. 
An'  the  time-expired's  waitin'  of  'is  orders  for  to  sail. 
O  the  weary  waitin'  when  on  Khyber  'ills  we  lay. 
But  the  time-expired's  waitin'  of  'is  orders  'ome  to-day. 

They'll  turn  us  out  at  Portsmouth  wharf  in  cold  an'  wet  an' 

rain. 
All  wearin'  Injian  cotton  kit,  but  we  will  not  complain; 
They'll  kill  us  of  pneumonia — for  that's  their  little  way — 
But  damn  the  chills  and  fever,  men,  we're  goin'  'ome  to-day! 

Troopin',  troopin' — ^winter's  round  again! 

See  the  new  draf's  pourin'  in  for  the  old  campaign; 

Ho,  you  poor  recruities,  but  you've  got  to  earn  your  pay — 

What's  the  last  from  Lunnon,  lads?    We're  goin'  there  to-day. 

Troopin',  troopin',  give  another  cheer — 

'Ere's  to  English  women  an'  a  quart  of  English  beer; 

The  Colonel  an'  the  regiment  an'  all  who've  got  to  stay. 

Gawd's  mercy  strike  'em  gentle — 

Whoop  1  we're  goin'  'ome  to-day. 


BarraeK-^oom  Ballads  417 

We're  goin'  'ome,  we're  goin'  'ome, 

Our  ship  is  at  the  shore, 

An'  you  must  pack  your  'aversack, 

For  we  won't  come  back  no  more. 

Ho,  don't  you  grieve  for  me, 

My  lovely  Mary- Anne, 

For  I'll  marry  you  yit  on  a  fourp'ny  Wt 

As  a  time-expired  man. 


GUNGA    DIN 


The  bhisti,  or  water-carrier,  attached  to  regiments  in  India,  is  often 
one  of  the  most  devoted  of  the  Queen's  servants.  He  is  also  appreciated 
by  the  men. 

[this  ballad  is  extensively  plagiarized] 

You  may  talk  o'  gin  an'  beer 

When  you're  quartered  safe  out  'ere, 

An'  you're  sent  to  penny-fights  an'  Aldershot  it; 

But  if  it  conies  to  slaughter 

You  will  do  your  work  on  water. 

An'  you'll  hck  the  bloomin'  boots  of  'im  that's 

got  it. 
l^ow  in  Injia's  sxmny  clime, 
Where  I  used  to  spend  my  time 
A-serviu'  of  'er  Majesty  the  Queen, 
Of  all  them  black  faced  crew 
The  finest  man  I  knew 
Was  our  regimental  bhisti,  Gunga  Bin. 

He  was  "Din!     Din!     Din! 

You  hmping  lump  o'  brick-dust,  Gunga  Din ! 

Hi!  slippy  hither ao! 

Water,  get  it!    Panee  lao!  * 

You  squidgy- nosed  old  idol,  Gunga  Din!*' 

*  Bring  water  swiftly. 


^8  U/ort^s  of  I^adyard  K'P"^^ 

The  unifonn  'e  wore  - 

Was  nothin'  much  before, 

An' rather  less  than 'arfo' that  be'ind. 

For  a  twisty  piece  o'  rag 

An'  a  goatskin  water-bag 

"Was  all  the  field-equipment  'e  could  find. 

When  the  sweatin'  troop  train  lay 

In  a  sidin'  through  i^e  day. 

Where  the  'eat  would  make  your  bloomin'  €j3^ 
brows  crawl, 

We  shouted  **  Harry  By !"  * 

TiU  our  throats  were  bricky-dry, 

Then  we  wopped  'im  'cause  'e  couldn't  serve  us  alL 
Itwas*'Din!    Din!    Din! 
You  'eathen,  where  the  mischief  'are  you  beenf 
You  put  some  juldee  in  it, 
Or  I'll  marrow  you  this  minute  f 
If  you  don't  fiU  up  my  helmet,  Gunga  Din!'* 

'E  would  dot  an'  carry  one 
Till  the  longest  day  was  done, 
An'  'e  didn't  seem  to  know  the  use  o'  fear. 
If  we  charged  or  broke  or  cut. 
You  could  bet  your  bloomin'  nut, 
'E'd  be  waitin'  fifty  paces  right  fiank  rear. 
With  'is  mussick  on  'is  back, 
'E  would  skip  with  our  attack, 
An'  watch  us  till  the  bugles  made  * 'Retire." 
An'  for  all  'is  dirty  'ide 
'E  was  white,  clear  white,  inside 
When  'e  went  to  tend  the  wounded  under  fire! 
Itwas**Dinl    Dm!     Din!" 
With  the  bullets  kickin'  dust-spots  on  thegreei&c 
When  the  cartridges  ran  out, 
You  could  'ear  the  front-files  shout : 
**HiI  ammunition-mules  an'  Gunga  Din!" 

♦  Mr.  Atkins's  equivalent  for  **0  Brotherl"  f  Hit  you. 


BarraeK-r^oom  Ballads  419 

I  shan't  forgit  the  night 

When  I  dropped  be'ind  the  fight 

"With  a  bullet  where  my  belt-plate  should  *a*  beezL 

I  was  choMn'  mad  with  thirst, 

An'  the  man  that  spied  me  first 

Was  our  good  old  grinnin',  gruntin'  Gunga  Din. 

*E  lifted  up  my  'ead, 

An'  'e  plugged  me  where  I  bled, 

An'  'e  guv  me  'arf-a-pint  o'  water — ^green: 

It  was  crawlin'  and  it  stunk, 

But  of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk, 

I'm  gratefulest  to  one  from  Gunga  Din. 

Itwas'^Dinl     Din!     Din! 

'Ere's  a  beggar  with  a  bullet  through  'is 
spleen; 

'E's  chawin'  up  the  ground  an'  'e's  Mckin* 
all  around : 

For  Gawd's  sake  git  the  water,    Gunga 
Din!" 

'E  carried  me  away 

To  where  a  dooli  lay. 

An'  a  bullet  come  an'  drilled  the  beggar  cleam 

'E  put  me  safe  inside. 

An'  just  before  'e  died : 

*'I  'ope  you  liked  your  drink,"  sez  Gunga  Dino 

So  I'll  meet  'im  later  on 

In  the  place  where  'e  is  gone — 

Where  it's  always  double  drill  and  no  canteen | 

"E'll  be  squattin'  on  the  coals 

Givin'  drink  to  pore  damned  souls, 

An'  I'll  get  a  swig  in  Hell  from  Gunga  Din  I 
Din  I     Din!     Din! 

You  Lazarushian-leather  Gunga  Din  I 
Tho'  I've  belted  you  an'  flayed  you, 
By  the  livin'  Gawd  that  made  you, 
You^re  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga  Din  I 


490  Worl(8  of  Tiadyard  Kipl'0$ 

MANDALAY 

Bt  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  lo  ihe  sea, 
There's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin',  an'  I  know  she  thinks  o'  me; 
For  the  wind  is  in  the  pahn-trees,  an'  the  temple-bells  they 

says 
**Oome  you  back,  you  British  soldier;  come  you  back  to 
Mandalayl" 

Come  you  back  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay: 
Can't  you  'ear  their  paddles  chunkin'  trom  Ban- 
goon  to  Mandalay? 
O  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
"Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thimder  outer 
China  'crost  the  Bay! 

*Er  petticut  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was  green, 

An*  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat — ^jes'  the  same  as  Theebaw's 

Queen, 
An'  I  seed  her  fust  a-smokin'  of  a  whackin'  white  cheroot, 
An*  a-wastin'  Christian  kisses  on  an  'eathen  idol's  foot: 
Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud — 
Wot  they  called  the  Great  Gawd  Budd— 
Plucky  lot  she  cared  for  idols  when  I  kissed  'er 

where  she  stud! 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice-fields  an'  the  sim  was  droppin' 

slow, 
She'd  git  'er  little  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  ^^Kullalo  loH 
With  'er  arm  upon  my  shoulder  an'  her  cheek  agin  my  cheek 
We  useter  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  hathis  pilin'  teak. 

Elephints  a-pilin'  teak 

In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek. 

Where  the  silence  'ung  that  'eavy  you  waa  'arf 
afraid  to  speak! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 


BarraeK-I^oom  Ballads  421 

But  that's  all  shove  be'ind  me — long  ago  an'  fur  away, 
An'  there  ain't  no  'buses  runnin'  from  the  Benk  to  Mandalay ; 
An'  I'm  learnin'  'ere  in  London  what  the  ten-year  sodger  tells : 
*^*If  you've  'eard  the  East  a=callin'j  why,  you  won't  'eed  notli- 
in'  else." 

iN'o !  you  won't  'eed  nothin'  else 

But  them  spicy  garlic  smells 

An'  the  sunshine  an'  the  palm-trees  an*  tfe 
tinkly  temple-bells  I 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

I  am  sick  o'  wastin'  leather  on  these  gutty  pavin'-stones. 
An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  the  fever  in  my  bones; 
Tho'  I  walks  with  fifty  'ousemaids  outer  Chelsea  to  the  Strand^ 
An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovin',  but  wot  do  they  imdefstandf* 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  'and — 

Law  I  wot  do  they  understand? 

I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cl^mer, 
greener  land ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay— 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez  where  the  best  is  like  the 

worst. 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an'  a  man  can 

raise  a  thirst ; 
For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I  would 

be- 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the  sea— 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
"Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay. 
With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  wliesi  we 

went  to  Mandalay! 
O  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play. 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China 
'crost  the  Bay ! 


4^22  U/orKs  of  l^udyard  l^iplii}($ 

THE   YOUNG   BRITISH    SOLDIER 

When  the  'arf-made  recruitj  goes  out  to  the  East 
'E  acts  like  a  babe  an'  'e  drinks  like  a  beast, 
An'  'e  wonders  because  'e  is  frequent  deceased 
Ere  'e's  fit  for  to  serve  as  a  soldier. 
Serve,  serve,  serve  as  a  soldier, 
Serve,  serve,  serve  as  a  soldier. 
Serve,  serve,  serve  as  a  soldier, 
So-oldier  hof  the  Queen ! 

Kow  all  you  recruities  v^hat's  drafted  to-day, 
You  shut  up  your  rag-box  an'  'ark  to  my  lay, 
An'  I'll  sing  you  a  soldier  as  far  as  I  may: 
A  soldier  vs^hat's  fit  for  a  soldier.   ,. 
Fit,  fit,  fit  for  a  soldier— 

First,  mind  you  steer  clear  o'  the  grog-sellers'  huts, 
For  they  sell  you  Fixed  Bay'nets  that  rots  out  your  guts  j 
Ay,  drink  that  'ud  eat  the  live  steel  from  your  butts— 
An'  it's  bad  for  the  young  British  soldier. 
Bad,  bad,  bad  for  the  soldier — 

When  the  cholera  comes — as  it  vrill  past  a  doubt— 
Keep  out  of  the  v^et  and  don't  go  on  the  shout,    . 
For  the  sickness  comes  In  as  the  liquor  dies  out. 
An'  it  crumples  the  young  British  soldier. 
Crum-,  crum-,  crumples  the  soldier — 

But  the  worst  o'  your  foes  is  the  sun  overhead; 
You  must  wear  your  'elmet  for  all  that  is  said. 
If  'e  finds  you  uncovered  'e'll  knock  you  down  dead. 
An'  you'll  die  like  a  fool  of  a  soldier. 
Fool,  fool,  fool  of  a  soldier — 

If  you're  cast  for  fatigue  by  a  sergeant  unkind, 
Don't  grouse  like  a  woman  nor  crack  on  nor  blind | 
Be  handy  and  civil,  and  then  you  will  find 

As  it's  beer  for  the  young  British  soldier. 
Beer,  beer,  beer  for  the  soldier — 


Barracl^-I^oom  Ballads  423 

Kow,  if  yon  must  marry,  take  care  she  is  old— 
A  troop-sergeant's  widow's  the  nicest  I'm  told — 
For  beauty  won't  help  if  your  vittles  is  cold, 
An'  love  ain't  enough  for  a  soldier. 

'Nough,  'nough,  'nough  for  a  soldier— 

If  the  wife  should  go  wrong  with  a  comrade,  be 

loath 
To  shoot  when  you  catch  'em— you'll  swing,  on 

my  oath!— 
Make  'im  take  'er  and  keep  'er;  that's  hell  for 
them  both, 

An'  you're  quit  o'  the  curse  of  a  soldier. 
Curse,  curse,  curse  of  a  soldier — 

When  first  under  fire  an'  you're  wishful  to  duck. 
Don't  look  or  take  'eed  at  the  man  that  is  struck, 
B©  thankful  you're  livin'  an'  trust  to  your  luck. 
An'  march  to  your  front  Hke  a  soldier. 
Front,  front,  front  like  a  soldiere 

When  'arf  of  your  bullets  fly  wide  in  the  ditch. 
Don't  call  your  Martini  a  cross-eyed  old  bitch; 
She's  human  as  you  are — ^you  treat  her  as  sich. 

An'  she'll  fight  for  the  young  British  soldier. 
Fight,  fight,  fight  for  the  soldier- 
When  shakin'  their  bustles  hke  ladies  so  fin® 
The  guns  o'  the  enemy  wheel  into  line ; 
Shoot  low  at  the  limbers  and  don't  mind  the  ^^ir^ 

For  noise  never  startles  the  soldier. 
Start-,  start-,  startles  the  soldier^^ 

If  your  officer's  dead  and  the  sergeants  look  whites 
Remember  it's  ruin  to  run  from  a  fight; 
So  take  open  order,  lie  down,  and  sit  tight, 
An'  wait  for  supports  like  a  soldier. 
Wait,  wait,  wait  Hke  a  soldier— 


124  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{ipViT)(^ 

"When  you're  wounded  an'  left  on  Afghanistan's 

plains, 
An'  the  women  come  out  to  cut  up  your  remains, 
Jest  roll  to  your  rifle  an'  blow  out  your  brains, 
An'  go  to  your  Gawd  Hke  a  soldier: 
Go,  go,  go  like  a  soldier, 
Go,  go,  go  like  a  soldier, 
Go,  go,  go  like  a  soldier, 
So-oldier  hof  the  Queen. 


SCREW-GUNS 


Smokin^  my  pipe  on  the  mountings,  sniffin'  the  mornin'-coolj 
I  walks  in  my  old  brown  gaiters  along  o'  my  old  brown  mule, 
With  seventy  gunners  be'ind  me,  an'  never  a  beggar  forgets 
It's  only  the  pick  o'  the  Army  that  handles  the  dear  little 
pets— Tss!     Tss! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — the  screw-guns  they 

all  love  you. 
So  when  we  call  round  with  a  few  guns,  o'  course  you 

will  know  what  to  do — hoo !  hoo ! 
Jest  send  in  your  Chief  an'  surrender — ^it's  worse  if 

you  fights  or  you  runs : 
You  can  go  where  you  please,  you  can  skid  up  the 

trees,  but  you  don't  get  away  from  the  guns. 

They  send  us  along  where  the  roads  are,  but  mostly  we  goes 

where  they  ain't ; 
We'd  climb  up  the  side  of  a  sign-board  an'  trust  to  the  stick 

o'  the  paint; 
We've  chivied  the  Naga  an'  Lushai,  we've  give  the  Afree 

deeman  fits. 
For  W0  fancies  ourselves  at  two  thousand,  we  guns  that  are 

built  in  two  bits — Tss !     Tss ! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 


BarraeK-I^oom  Ballads  425 

If  a  man  doesn't  work,  why,  we  drills  'im  an'  teaches  'im 

'ow  to  be'ave; 
If  a  beggar  can't  marcti,  why,  we  kills  'im  an'  rattles  'im 

into  'is  grave. 
You've  got  to  stand  up  to  our  business  an'  spring  without 

snatchin'  or  fuss. 
D'you  say  that  you  sweat  with  the  field-guns?     By  God,  you 

must  lather  with  us — TssI     Tss! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns— 

The  eagles  is  screamin'  around  us,  the  river's  a-moanin* 

below, 
We're  clear  o'  the  pine  an'  the  oak-scrub,  we're  out  on  the 

rocks  an'  the  snow, 
An'  the  wind  is  as  thin  as  a  whip-lash  what  carries  away  to 

the  plains 
The  rattle  an'  stamp  o'  the  lead-mules —the  jinglety»jink  o' 

the  chains — Tss !     Tss ! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 

There's  a  wheel  on  the  Horns  o'  the  Mornin'  an'  a  wheel  on 

the  edge  o'  the  Pit, 
An'  a  drop  into  nothin'  beneath  us  as  straight  as  a  beggar 

can  spit ; 
With  the  sweat  runnin'  out  o'  your  shirt-sleeves  an'  the  sun 

off  the  snow  in  your  face, 
An'  'arf  o'  the  men  on  the  drag-ropes  to  hold  the  old  gun  in 

'er  place — Tss!     Tss! 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — 

Smokin'  my  pipe  on  the  mountings,  sniffin'  the  momin'- 

cool, 
I  climbs  in  my  old  brown  gaiters  along  o'  my  old  brown 

mule. 
The  monkey  can  say  what  our  road  was — the  wild-goat  'e 

knows  where  we  passed. 
Stand  easy,  you  long-eared  old  darlin's!     Out  drag-ropes  I 

With  shrapnel !     Hold  fast !— Tss !     Tss ! 


426  U/orl^s  of  l^udyard  I^iplii)^} 

For  you  all  love  the  screw-guns — the  screw-gu-ns 

they  all  love  you ! 
So  when  we  take  tea  with  a  few  guns,  o'  course 

you  will  know  what  to  do — hoo!  hoo! 
Jest  send  in  your  Chief  and  surrender — it's  worse 

if  you  fights  or  you  runs : 
You  may  hide  in  the  caves,  they'll  be  only  youi 

graves,  but  you  don't  get  away  from  the 

guns ! 


BELTS 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street  that's  near  to  Dublin  Quay, 

Between  an  Irish  regiment  an'  English  cavalree ; 

It  started  at  Revelly  an'  it  lasted  on  till  dark ; 

The  first  man  dropped  at  Harrison's,  the  last  forninst  the  Park. 

For  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's  one  for 
you!" 

An'  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's  done  for 
you!" 

O  buckle  an'  tongue 

Was  the  song  that  we  sung 

From  Harrison's  on  to  the  Park! 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — the  regiments  was  out, 
They  called  us  "Delhi  Rebels,"  an'  we  answered  "Threes 

about!" 
Ihat  drew  them  like  a  hornet's  nest — we  met  them  good  an' 

large. 
The  English  at  the  double  an'  the  Irish  at  the  charge- 
Then  it  was :  Belts — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — an'  I  was  in  it  too; " 
We  passed  the  time  o'  day,  an'  then  the  belts  went  ivhirraru; 
I  misremember  what  occurred,  but  subsequint  the  storm 
A  "Freeman's  Journal  Supplemint"  was  all  my  uniform. 
O  it  was :  Belts — 


Barrae^-I^oom  Ballads  427 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — they  sent  the  Polis  there, 
The  EngHsh  were  too  drunk  to  know,  the  Irish  didn't  care; 
But  when  they  grew  impertinint  we  simultaneous  rose. 
Till  half  o'  them  was  Liffey  mud  an'  half  was  tatthered  clo'es. 
For  it  was :  Belts — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — it  might  ha'  raged  till 

now, 
But  some  one  drew  his   side-arm   clear,  an'  nobody  knew 

how; 
'Twas  Hogan  took  the  point  an'  dropped;   we  saw  the  red 

blood  run : 
An'  so  we  all  was  murderers  that  started  out  in  fun.         : 
While  it  was :  Belts — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — but   that  took   off  the 

shine, 
Wid  each  man  whishperin'  to  his  next:  *'  'Twas  never  work 

o'  mine!" 
We  went  away  like  beaten  dogs,  an'  down  the  street  we  bore 

him, 
The  poor  dumb  corpse  that  couldn't  see  the  bhoys  were  sorry 

for  him. 

When  it  was :  Belts- — 

There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — it  isn't  over  yet. 
For  half  of  us  are  under  guard  wid  punishmints  to  get; 
'Tis  all  a  mericle  to  me  as  in  the  Clink  I  lie; 
"  There  was  a  row  in  Silver  Street — ^begod,  I  wonder  why  I 

But  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's  one  for 

you!" 
An'  it  was  "Belts,  belts,  belts,  an'  that's  done  for 

you!" 
O  buckle  an'  tongue 
Was  the  song  that  we  sung 
From  Harrison's  down  to  the  Park  I 


>THER  VERSES 


TO   THE   UNKNOWN    GODDESS 

Will  yon  conquer  my  heart  with  your  beauty ;  my  soul  go- 
ing out  from  afar? 

Shall  I  fall  to  your  hand  as  a  victim  of  crafty  and  cautious^ 
shikarf  . 

Have  I  met  you  and  passed  you  already,  unknowing,  un' 

thinking  and  blind? 
Shall  I  meet  you  next  session  at  Simla,  O  sweetest  and  best 

of  your  kind? 

Does  the  P.  and  O.  bear  you  to  me-ward,  or,  clad  in  short 

frocks  in  the  West, 
Are  you  growing  the  charms  that  shall  capture  and  torturei 

the  heart  in  my  breast? 

Will  you  stay  in  the  Plains  till  September— my  passion  asf 

warm  as  the  day? 
Will  you  bring  me  to  book  on  the  Mountains,  or  where  thes 

thermantidotes  play? 

When  the  light  of  your  eyes  shall  make  pallid  the  mean  lessen 

lights  I  pursue, 
And  the  charm  of  your  presence  shall  lure  me  from  love  of 

the  gay  *Hhirteen-two"; 

When  the  peg  and  the  pigskin  shall  please  not;  when  I  buy 

me  Calcutta-built  clothes; 
When  I  quit  the  Delight  of  Wild  Asses;    forswearing  the 

swearing  of  oaths; 

As  a  deer  to  the  hand  of  the  hunter  when  I  turn  'mid  th^ 

gibes  of  my  friends ; 
When  the  days  of  my  freedom  are  numbered,  and  the  life  ol 

the  bachelor  ends. 
(428) 


OtI?er  Verses  429 

Ah  Goddess!   child,  spinster,  or  widow — as  of  old  on  Mars 

Hill  when  they  raised 
To  the  God  that  they  knew  not  an  altar— so  I,  a  young 

Pagan,  have  praised 

The  Goddess  I  know  not  nor  worship ;  yet,  if  half  that  men 

tell  me  be  true, 
You  will  come  in  the  future,  and  therefore  these  verses  are 

written  to  you. 


THE    RUPAIYAT   OF   OMAR   KAUVIN 

[Allowing  for  the  difference  'twixt  prose  and  rhymed  exaggeration, 

this  ought  to  reproduce  the  sense  of  what  Sir  A told  the  nation 

some  time  ago,  when  the  Government  struck  from  our  incomes  two 
per  cent.] 

Now  the  N"ew  Year,  reviving  last  Year's  Debt, 
The  Thoughtful  -Fisher  casteth  wide  his  Net ; 
So  I  with  begging  Dish  and  ready  Tongue 
Assail  all  Hen  for  all  that  I  can  get.' 

Imports  indeed  are  gone  with  all  their  Dues— 
Lo !  Salt  a  Lever  that  I  dare  not  use, 

Nor  may  I  ask  the  Tillers  in  Bengal — 
Surely  my  Kith  and  Kin  will  not  refuse! 

Pay — and  I  promise  by  the  Dust  of  Spring, 
Betrenchment.     If  my  promises  can  bring 

Comfort,  Ye  have  Them  now  a  thousand-fold—^ 
By  Allah !  I  will  promise  Anything! 

Indeed,  indeed.  Retrenchment  oft  before 
I  swore — but  did  I  mean  it  when  I  swore? 

And  then,  and  then,  "We  wandered  to  the  HiUs^ 
And  so  the  Little  Less  became  Much  More, 

Whether  at  Boileaugunge  or  Babylon, 

I  know  not  how  the  wretched  Thing  is  done^ 

The  Items  of  Receipt  grow  surely  small; 
The  Items  of  Expense  mount  one  by  one. 


430  U/orKs  of  F^adyard  l^iplip^ 

I  cannot  lielp  it.     "What  have  I  to  do 

With  One  and  Five,  or  Four,  or  Three,  or  Two? 

Let  Scribes  spit  Blood  and  Sulphur  as  they  please^ 
Or  Statemen  call  me  foolish — Heed  not  you. 

Behold,  I  promise — Anything  You  will. 
Behold,  I  greet  you  with  an  empty  Till — 

Ah  I  Fellow-Sinners,  of  your  Charity 
Seek  not  the  Eeason  of  the  Dearth,  but  filL 

For  if  I  sinned  and  fell,  where  lies  the  Gain 

Of  Knowledge?    Would  it  ease  you  of  your  Pain 

To  know  the  tangled  Threads  of  Revenue, 
I  ravel  deeper  in  a  hopeless  Skein? 

*^Who  hath  not  Prudence" — what  was  it  I  said, 
Of  Her  who  paints  Her  Eyes  and  tires  Her  Head, 

And  gibes  and  mocks  the  People  in  the  Street, 
And  fawns  upon  them  for  Her  thriftless  Bread? 

Accursed  is  She  of  Eve's  daughters— She 
Hath  cast  off  Prudence,  and  Her  Elid  shall  be 

Destruction  .  .  .  Brethren,  of  your  Bounty  grant 
Some  portion  of  your  daily  Bread  to  Me, 


LA   NUIT   BLANCHE 

A  much-discerning  Public  hold 
The  Singer  generally  sings 
Of  personal  and  private  things. 
And  prints  and  sells  his  past  for  gold. 

Whatever  I  may  here  disclaim, 
The  very  clever  folk  I  sing  to 
Will  most  indubitably  cling  to 

Their  pet  delusion,  just  the  same, 

I  HAD  seen,  as  dawn  was  breaking 
And  I  staggered  to  my  rest, 

Tari  Devi  softly  shaking 

From  the  Cart  Road  to  the  crept. 


Ofcl?^'^  l/erses  431 

I  had  seen  the  spurs  of  Jakko 

Heave  and  quiver,  swell  and  sink 

"Was  it  Earthquake  or  tobacco, 
Day  of  Doom  or  Mght  of  Drink? 

In  the  full,  fresh,  fragrant  morning 

I  observed  a  camel  crawl. 
Laws  of  gravitation  scorning, 

On  the  ceiling  and  the  wall ; 
Then  I  watched  a  fender  walkings 

And  I  heard  gray  leeches  sing, 
And  a  red-hot  monkey  talking 

Did  not  seem  the  proper  thing. 

Then  a  Creature,  skinned  and  crimson, 

Kan  about  the  floor  and  cried, 
And  they  said  I  had  the  "jims"  on, 

And  they  dosed  me  with  bromide, 
And  they  locked  me  in  my  bedroom — 

Me  and  one  wee  Blood  Red  Mouse- 
Though  I  said :  "To  give  my  head  room 

You  had  best  unroof  the  house." 

But  my  words  were  all  unheeded, 

Though  I  told  the  grave  M.D. 
That  the  treatment  really  needed 

Was  a  dip  in  open  sea 
That  was  lapping  just  below  me. 

Smooth  as  silver,  white  as  snow. 
And  it  took  three  men  to  throw  me 

When  I  found  I  could  not  go. 

Half  the  night  I  watched  the  Heaveng 

Fizz  like  '81  champagne — 
Fly  to  sixes  and  to  sevens. 

Wheel  and  thunder  back  again ; 
And  when  all  was  peace  and  ordef 

Save  one  planet  nailed  askew, 
Much  I  wept  because  my  warder 

Would  not  let  me  set  it  true. 


[B%  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

After  frenzied  hours  of  waiting, 

When  the  Earth  and  Skies  were  dumb. 
Pealed  an  awful  voice  dictating 

An  interminable  sum, 
Changing  to  a  tangled  story — 

*'What  she  said  you  said  I  said—'* 
Till  the  Moon  arose  in  glory, 

And  I  found  her  ...  in  my  head; 

Then  a  Face  came,  blind  and  weepings 

And  It  couldn't  wipe  Its  eyes, 
And  It  muttered  I  was  keeping 

Back  the  moonlight  from  the  ski^| 
So  I  patted  It  for  pity. 

But  it  whistled  shrill  with  wrath. 
And  a  huge  black  Devil  City 

Poured  its  peoples  on  my  path. 

So  I  fled  with  steps  uncertain 

On  a  thousand-year  long  race, 
But  the  bellying  of  the  curtain 

Kept  me  always  in  one  place; 
While  the  tumult  rose  and  maddened 

To  the  roar  of  Earth  on  fire, 
Ere  it  ebbed  and  sank  and  saddened 

To  a  whisper  tense  as  wire. 

In  intolerable  stillness 

Rose  one  little,  little  star, 
And  it  chuckled  at  my  illness, 

And  it  mocked  me  from  afar; 
And  its  brethren  came  and  eyed  me, 

Called  the  Universe  to  aid, 
Till  I  lay,  with  naught  to  hide  me, 

'Neath  the  Scorn  of  AU  Things  Mad^ 

Dun  and  saffron,  robed  and  splendid. 
Broke  the  solemn,  pitying  Day, 

And  I  knew  my  pains  were  ended, 
And  I  turned  and  tried  to  pray; 


Otl?er  Verses  433 

But  my  speech  was  shattered  wholly, 

And  I  wept  as  children  weep, 
Till  the  dawn-wind,  softly,  slowly. 

Brought  to  burning  eyelids  sleep. 


MY    RIVAL 


I  GO  to  concert,  party,  ball— 

What  profit  is  in  these? 
I  sit  alone  against  the  wall 

And  strive  to  look  at  ease. 
The  incense  that  is  mine  by  right 

They  burn  before  Her  shrine; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen 

And  She  is  forty-nine. 

I  cannot  check  my  girlish  blush, 

My  color  comes  and  goes; 
I  redden  to  my  finger-tips, 

And  sometimes  to  my  nose. 
But  She  is  white  where  white  should  h®^ 

And  red  where  red  should  shine. 
The  blush  that  flies  at  seventeen 

Is  fixed  at  forty-nine. 

I  wish  I  had  Her  constant  cheeks 

I  wish  that  I  could  sing 
All  sorts  of  funny  little  songSr 

Kot  quite  the  proper  thing. 
I'm  very  gauche  and  very  shy. 

Her  jokes  aren't  in  my  line; 
And,  worst  of  all,  I'm  seventeen 

While  She  is  forty-nine. 

The  young  men  come,  the  young  men  go^ 
Each  pink  and  white  and  neat. 

She's  older  than  their  mothers,  but 
They  grovel  at  Her  feet. 
Vol.  3.  19 


434  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

They  walk  beside  Her  "*  rickshaw  wheels— = 

None  ever  walk  by  mine ; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen 

And  She  is  forty-nine^ 

She  rides  with  half  a  dozen  men 

(She  calls  them  "boys' '  and  "mashers"), 
I  trot  along  the  Mall  alone ; 

My  prettiest  frocks  and  sashes 
Don't  help  to  fill  my  programme-card, 

And  vainly  I  repine 
From  ten  to  two  a.m.     Ah  me! 

Would  I  were  forty-nine ! 

She  calls  me ' '  darling, "  "  pet, ' '  and  * '  dear,  * - 

And  "sweet  retiring  maid." 
I'm  always  at  the  back,  I  know, 

She  puts  me  in  the  shade. 
She  introduces  me  to  men, 

"Cast"  lovers,  I  opine, 
For  sixty  takes  to  seventeen, 

Nineteen  to  forty-nine. 

But  even  She  must  older  grow 

Ana  end  Her  dancing  days. 
She  can't  go  on  forever  so 

At  concerts,  balls,  and  plays. 
One  ray  of  priceless  hope  I  see 

Before  my  footsteps  shine; 
Just  think,  that  She'll  be  eighty-one 

When  I  am  forty- nine. 


THE    LOVERS'    LITANY 

Eyes  of  gray — a  sodden  quay. 
Driving  rain  and  falling  tears, 
As  the  steamer  wears  to  sea 
In  a  parting  storm  of  cheers. 


OtI?er  Verses  435 

Sing,  for  Faith  and  Hope  are  high— > 
None  so  true  as  you  and  I — 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany : 
^'Love  like  ours  can  never  dieP^ 

Eyes  of  black— a  throbbing  keel, 
Milky  foam  to  left  and  right; 
Whispered  converse  near  the  wheel 
In  the  brilliant  tropic  night. 

Cross  that  rules  the  Southern  Sky! 

Stars  that  sweep  and  wheel  and  fiy^ 

Hear  the  Lovers'  Litany : 

*^Love  like  ours  can  never  dieP* 

Eyes  of  brown- — a  dusty  plain 
Split  and  parched  with  heat  of  June, 
Flying  hoof  and  tightened  rein, 
Hearts  that  beat  the  old,  old  tune. 

Side  by  side  the  horses  fly, 

Frame  we  now  the  old  reply 

Of  the  Lovers'  Litany : 

''Love  like  ours  can  never  dieP^ 

Eyes  of  blue— the  Simla  Hills 
Silvered  with  the  moonlight  hoar; 
Pleading  of  the  waltz  that  thrills, 
Dies  and  echoes  round  Benmore. 

''Mabel,''  ''Officers,''  '' Oood-by,''^ 

Glamour,  wine,  and  witchery- — 

On  my  soul's  sincerity, 

"Love  like  ours  can  never  dieP^ 

Maidens,  of  your  charity, 
Pity  my  most  luckless  state. 
Four  times  Cupid's  debtor  I — 
Bankrupt  in  quadruplicate. 

Yet,  despite  this  evil  case. 

An  a  maiden  showed  me  grace. 


436  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  I^fplip^ 

Four-and-forty  times  would  I 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany : 
^^Love  like  ours  can  never  dieP^ 


A   BALLAD    OF   BURIAL 

{**8aint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  Church  for  peace 

If  down  here  I  chance  to  die, 

Solemnly  I  beg  you  take 
Ml  that  is  left  of '*  I" 

To  the  Hills  for  old  sake's  sake. 
Pack  me  very  thoroughly 

In  the  ice  that  used  to  slake 
Pegs  I  drank  when  I  was  dry — 

This  observe  for  old  sake's  sakSo 

To  the  railway  station  hie, 

There  a  single  ticket  take 
For  Umballa — goods-train— I 

Shall  not  mind  delay  or  shake. 
I  shall  rest  contentedly 

Spite  of  clamor  coolies  make; 
Thus  in  state  and  dignity 

Send  me  up  for  old  sake's  sake. 

Next  the  sleepy  Babu  wake, 

Book  a  Kalka  van  *'for  four.'* 
Few,  I  think,  will  care  to  make 

Journeys  with  me  any  more 
As  they  used  to  do  of  yore. 

I  shall  need  a  "special"  break— 
Thing  I  never  took  before — 

Get  me  one  for  old  sake's  sake. 

After  that — arrangements  make. 

No  hotel  will  take  me  in, 
And  a  bullock's  back  would  break 

'Neath  the  teak  and  leaden  skin. 


OtI?er  Verses  437 

Tonga  ropes  are  frail  and  tliin. 

Or,  did  I  a  back-seat  take, 
In  a  tonga  I  might  spin — 

Do  your  best  for  old  sake's  sake. 

After  that — your  work  is  done. 

Recollect  a  Padre  must 
Mourn  the  dear  departed  one — 

Throw  the  ashes  and  the  dust. 
Don't  go  down  at  once.     I  trust 

You  will  find  excuse  to  '*  snake 
Three  days'  casual  on  the  bust," 

Get  your  fun  for  old  sake's  sake. 

I  could  never  stand  the  Plains. 

Think  of  blazing  June  and  May, 
Think  of  those  September  rains 

Yearly  till  the  Judgment  Day! 
I  should  never  rest  in  peace, 

I  should  sweat  and  lie  awake. 
Rail  me  then,  on  my  decease. 

To  the  Hills  for  old  sake's  sake^ 


DIVIDED    DESTINIES 

It  was  an  artless  Bandar^  and  he  danced  upon  a  pine. 
And  much  I  wondered  how  he  lived,  and  where  the  beast 

might  dine, 
And  many,  many  other  things,  +dll,  o'er  my  morning  smoke, 
I  slept  the  sleep  of  idleness  and  dreamt  that  Bandar  spoke. 

He  said :  * '  O  man  of  many  ci^thes !     Sad  crawler  on  the  Hills ! 
Observe,  I  know  not  Rankei  's  shop,  nor  Ranken's  monthly 

bnis; 
I  take  no  heed  to  trousers  or  the  coats  that  you  call  dress ; 
Nor  am  I  plagued  with  little  cards  for  little  drinks  at  Mess. 


4:38  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  lt{iplir)<^ 

"I  steal  the  bunnia's  grain  at  morn,  at  noon  and  eventide 
(For  he  is  fat  and  I  am  spare),  I  roam  the  mountain  side, 
I  follow  no  man's  carriage,  and  no,  never  in  my  life 
Have  I  flirted  at  Peliti's  with  another  Bandar'' s  wife. 

''O  man  of  futile  fopperies — unnecessary  wraps; 
I  own  no  ponies  in  the  hills,  I  drive  no  tall- wheeled  traps ; 
I  buy  me  not  twelve-button  gloves,  'short-sixes,'  eke,  or  rings, 
Nor  do  I  waste  at  Hamilton's  my  wealth  on  'pretty  things.' 

"I  quarrel  with  my  wife  at  home,  we  never  fight  abroad; 
But  Mrs.  B.  has  grasped  the  fact  I  am  her  only  lord. 
I  never  heard  of  fever — dumps  nor  debts  depress  my  soul; 
And  I  pity  and  despise  you!"     Here  he  pouched  my  break- 
fast-roll. 

His  hide  was  very  mangy,  and  his  face  was  very  red. 
And  ever  and  anon  he  scratched  with  energy  his  head. 
His  manners  were  not  always  nice,  but  how  my  spirit  cried 
To  be  an  artless  Bandar  loose  upon  the  mountain  side ! 

So  I  answered :  ' '  Gentle  Bandar^  an  inscrutable  Decree 
Makes  thee  a  gleesome,  fleasome  Thou,  and  me  a  wretched  Me. 
Go !     Depart  in  peace,  my  brother,  to  thy  home  amid  the  pine ; 
Yet  forget  not  once  a  mortal  wished  to  change  his  lot  with 
thine." 


THE   MASQUE    OF   PLENTY 

Argument. — The  Indian  Government,  being  minded  to  discover  the 
economic  condition  of  their  lands,  sent  a  Committee  to  inquire  into  it ; 
and  saw  that  it  was  good. 

Scene. — The  wooded  heights  of  Simla.  The  Incarnation 
of  the  Government  of  I  idia  i7i  the  raiment  of  the 
Angel  of  Plenty  sings  to  pianoforte  accompani- 
ment:— 

"How  sweet  is  the  shepherd's  sweet  life! 
From  the  dawn  to  the  even  he  strays — 


Otl^er  Uersss  439 

He  shall  follow  his  sheep  all  the  day, 

And  his  tongue  shall  be  filled  with  praise. 

(Adagio  dim.)  Filled  with  praise!" 

(Largendo  con  sp.)  Now  this  is  the  position, 

Go  make  an  inquisition 
Into  their  real  condition 
As  swiftly  as  ye  may. 
{p.)  Ay,  paint  our  swarthy  billions 
The  richest  of  vermilions 
Ere  two  well-led  cotillions 

Have  danced  themselves  away. 

Turkish  Patrol,  as  able  and  intelligent  Investigators 
wind  down  the  Himalayas: 

What  is  the  state  of  the  lN"ation?     What  is  its  occupation? 
Hi !  get  along,  get  along,  get  along — lend  us  the  information ! 

{Dim.)  Census  the  hyle  and  the  yabu — capture  a  first-class 

Babu, 
Set  him  to  cut  Gazetteers — Gazetteers  .  .   . 

iff')  What  is  the  state  of  the  Nation,  etc.,  etc. 

Interlude,  from  Nowhere  in  Particular,  to  stringed  and 

Oriental  instruments 
Our  cattle  reel  beneath  the  yoke  they  bear — 

The  earth  is  iron,  and  the  skies  are  brass — 
And  faint  with  fervor  of  the  flaming  air 
The  languid  hours  pass. 

The  well  is  dry  beneath  the  village  tree — 
The  young  wheat  withers  ere  it  reach  a  span, 

And  belts  of  blinding  sand  show  cruelly 
Where  once  the  river  ran. 

Pray,  brothers,  pray,  but  to  no  earthly  King — 
Lift  up  your  hands  above  the  blighted  grain. 

Look  westward — if  they  please,  the  Gods  shall  bring 
Their  mercy  with  the  rain. 


440  U/orl^s  of  P^udyard  \{ipnT)(^ 

Look  westward — bears  tlie  blue  no  brown  cloud-bank? 

Nay,  it  is  written — wherefore  should  we  fly? 
On  our  own  field  and  by  our  cattle's  flank 

Lie  down,  lie  down  to  die! 

Semi-Chorus 
By  the  plumed  heads  of  Kings 

Waving  high, 
Where  the  tall  corn  springs 

O'er  the  dead. 
If  they  rust  or  rot  we  die, 
If  they  ripen  we  are  fed. 
Very  mighty  is  the  power  of  our  Kings! 
Triumphal  return  to  Simla  of  the  Investigators,  attired 
after  the  manner  of  Dionysus,  leading  a  pet  tiger-cub 
in  wreaths  of  rhubarb  leaves,  symbolical  of  India 
under  medical  treatment.     They  sing: 

We  have  seen,  we  have  written— behold  it,  the  proof  of  our 

manifold  toil ! 
In  their  hosts  they  assembled  and  told  it — the  tale  of  the  sons 

of  the  soil. 

We  have  said  of  the  Sickness,  *' Where  is  it?"— and  of  Death. 

"It  is  far  from  our  ken;" 
We  have  paid  a  particular  visit  to  the  affluent  children  of  men. 
We  have  trodden  the  mart  and  the  well-curb — ^we  have  stooped 

to  the  Held  and  the  byre; 
And  the  King  may  the  forces  of  Hell  curb,  for  the  People 

have  all  they  desire! 

Castanets  and  step-dance: 
Oh,  the  dom  and  the  mag  and  the  thakur  and  the  thag. 

And  the  nat  and  the  brinjaree, 
And  the  bunnia  and  the  ryot  are  as  happy  and  as  quiet 

And  as  plump  as  they  can  be  I 
Yes,  the  jain  and  the  jat  in  his  stucco-fronted  hut. 

And  the  bounding  bazugar, 
By  the  favor  of  the  King,  are  as  fat  as  anything, 

They  are — they  are— they  are ! 


OtI?er  l/erses  411 

Recitative,  Government  of  India,  with  white  satin 
wings  and  electroplated  harp: 
How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains- — in  peace  reclining, 
Thus  to  be  assured  that  our  people  are  unanimously  dining. 
And  though  there  are  places  not  so  blessed  as  others  in  natu- 
ral advantages,  which,  after  all,  was  only  to  be  expected, 
Proud  and  glad  are  we  to  congratulate  you  upon  the  work  you 

have  thus  ably  effected. 
(Ores.)     How  be-ewtiful  upon  the  mountains! 

Hired  Band,  brasses  only,  full  chorus: 
God  bless  the  Squire 
And  all  his  rich  relations 
Who  teach  us  poor  people 
We  eat  our  proper  rations — 

We  eat  our  proper  rations, 

In  spite  of  inundations, 

Malarial  exhalations. 

And  casual  starvations, 
We  have,  we  have,  they  say  we  have — 
We  have  our  proper  rations! 

( Cornet) 

Which  nobody  can  deny! 

If  he  does  he  tells  a  lie — 

We  are  all  as  willing  as  Barkis — 
We  all  of  us  loves  the  Markiss — 
We  all  of  us  stuffs  our  ca-ar-kis— 

With  food  until  we  die !     {Da  capo.) 

Chorus  of  the  Crystallized  Facts 
Before  the  beginning  of  years 
There  came  to  the  rule  of  the  State 
Men  with  a  pair  of  shears, 
Men  with  an  Estimate — 
Strachey  with  Muir  for  leaven, 
Lytton  with  locks  that  fell, 
Ripon  fooling  with  Heaven, 
And  Temple  riding  like  H-IU 


§43  U/orl^s  of  V{adyard  t^iplip^ 

And  the  bigots  took  in  hand 
Cess  and  the  falling  of  rain, 
And  the  measure  of  sifted  sand 
The  dealer  puts  in  the  grain — 
Imports  by  land  and  sea, 
To  uttermost  decimal  worth, 
And  registration — free — 
In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth : 
And  fashioned  with  pens  and  paper, 
And  fashioned  in  black  and  white, 
"With  Life  for  a  flickering  taper 
And  Death  for  a  blazing  light — 
With  the  Armed  and  the  Civil  Power, 
That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span. 
From  Adam's  Bridge  to  Peshawur, 
The  Much  Administered  man. 

In  the  towns  of  the  North  and  the  East, 
They  gathered  as  unto  rule, 
They  bade  him  starve  the  priest 
And  send  his  children  to  school. 
Railways  and  roads  they  wrought, 
/  For  the  needs  of  the  soil  within; 
A  time  to  squabble  in  court, 
A  time  to  bear  and  to  grin. 
And  gave  him  peace  in  his  ways, 
Jails — and  Police  to  tight, 
Justice  at  length  of  days, 
And  Right — -and  Might  in  the  Right. 
His  speech  is  of  mortgaged  bedding, 
On  his  kine  he  borrows  yet. 
At  his  heart  is  his  daughter's  wedding, 
In  his  eye  foreknowledge  of  debt. 
He  eats  and  hath  indigestion. 
He  toils  and  he  may  not  stop; 
His  life  is  a  long-drawn  question 
Between  a  crop  and  a  crop. 


Otl?er  l/erses  443 


THE   MARE'S   NEST 

Jane  Austen  Beecher  Stowe  de  Rouse 
Was  good  beyond  all  earthly  need; 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  her  spouse 
Was  very,  very  bad  indeed. 

He  smoked  cigars,  called  churches  slow. 
And  raced — but  this  she  did  not  know. 

For  Belial  Machiavelli  kept 

The  little  fact  a  secret,  and. 
Though  o'er  his  minor  sins  she  wept, 

Jane  Austen  did  not  understand 
That  Lilly — thirteen-two  and  bay— 
Absorbed  one  half  her  husband's  pay. 

She  was  so  good,  she  made  him  worse 
(Some  women  are  like  this,  I  think) ; 

He  taught  her  parrot  how  to  curse, 
Her  Assam  monkey  how  to  drink. 

He  vexed  her  righteous  soul  until 

She  went  up,  and  he  went  down  hill. 

Then  came  the  crisis,  strange  to  say, 
Which  turned  a  good  wife  to  a  better. 

A  telegraphic  peon,  one  day. 

Brought  her — now,  had  it  been  a  letter 

For  Belial  Machiavelli,  I 

Know  Jane  would  just  have  let  it  lie. 

But  'twas  a  telegram  instead. 

Marked  *' urgent,"  and  her  duty  plain 
To  open  it.     Jane  Austen  read : 

**Your  Lilly's  got  a  cough  again. 
Can't  understand  why  she  is  kept 
At  your  expense."     Jane  Austen  wept. 


444  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

It  was  a  misdirected  wire. 

Her  husband  was  at  Shaitanpore. 
She  spread  her  anger,,  hot  as  fire, 

Through  six  thin  foreign  sheets  or  morOc 
Sent  off  that  letter,  wrote  another 
To  her  soHcitor — and  mother. 

Then  Belial  Machiavelli  saw 

Her  error  and,  I  trust,  his  own, 
Wired  to  the  minion  of  the  Law, 

And  traveled  wifeward — not  alone. 
For  Lilly— thirteen-two  and  bay- 
Came  in  a  horse-box  all  the  way. 

There  was  a  scene — a  weep  or  two — 
With  many  kisses.     Austen  Jane 

Rode  Lilly  all  the  season  through. 
And  never  opened  wires  again. 

She  races  now  with  Belial.     This 

Is  very  sad,  but  so  it  is. 


POSSIBILITIES 

Ay,  lay  him  'neath  the  Simla  pine— 
A  fortnight  fully  to  be  missed, 
Behold,  we  lose  our  fourth  at  whist, 

A  chair  is  vacant  where  we  dine. 

His  place  forgets  him ;  other  men 

Have  bought  his  ponies,  guns,  and  trapSc 
His  fortune  is  the  Great  Perhaps 

And  that  cool  rest-house  down  the  glen, 

Whence  he  shall  hear,  as  spirits  may. 
Our  mundane  revel  on  the  height. 
Shall  watch  each  flashing  'rickshaw-light 

Sweep  on  to  dinner,  dance,  and  play. 


Otl^er  l/erses  445 

Benmore  shall  woo  him  to  the  ball 

With  lighted  rooms  and  braying  band, 
And  he  shall  hear  and  understand 

^^ Dream  Faces^^  better  than  us  all. 

For,  think  you,  as  the  vapors  flee 

Across  Sanjaolie  after  rain, 

His  soul  may  climb  the  hiU  again 
To  each  old  field  of  victory. 

Unseen,  who  women  held  so  dear, 

The  strong  man's  yearning  to  his  kind 
Shall  shake  at  most  the  window-blind^ 

Or  dull  a  while  the  card-room's  cheer. 

In  his  own  place  of  power  unknown, 

His  Light  o'  Love  another's  flame, 

His  dearest  pony  galloped  lame, 
And  he  an  ahen  and  alone. 

Yet  may  he  meet  with  many  a  friend — 
Shrewd  shadows,  lingering  long  unseen 
Among  us  when  *'  God  save  the  Queen^^ 

Shows  even  '*  extras"  have  an  end. 

And,  when  we  leave  the  heated  room. 
And,  when  at  four  the  lights  expire, 
The  crew  shall  gather  round  the  fire 

And  mock  our  laughter  in  the  gloom. 

Talk  as  we  talked,  and  they  ere  death- 
First  wanly,  dance  in  ghostly  wise, 
With  ghosts  of  tunes  for  melodies, 

And  vanish  at  the  morniB^'s-breaQi. 


446  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplii)^ 


CHRISTMAS   IN    INDIA 

Dim  dawn  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sky  is  saffron-yellow — 

As  the  women  in  the  village  grind  the  com, 
And  the  parrots  seek  the  riverside,  each  calling  to  bis  fellow 
That  the  Day,  the  staring  Eastern  Day  is  bom. 

Oh,  the  white  dust  on  the  highway!     Oh,  the  stenches 
in  the  byway ! 
Oh,  the  clammy  fog  that  hovers  over  earth! 
And  at  Home  they're  making  merry  'neath  the  white 
and  scarlet  berry — 
What  pai-t  have  India's  exiles  in  their  mirth? 

Full  day  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sky  is  blue  and  staring — 

As  the  cattle  crawl  afield  beneath  the  yoke, 
And  they  bear  One  o'er  the  field-path,  who  is  past  all  hope 
or  caring, 
To  the  ghat  below  the  curling  wreaths  of  smoke. 

Call  on  Kama,  going  slowly,  as  ye  bear  a  brother 

lowly — 

Call  on  Rama — he  may  hear,  perhaps,  your  voice ! 

With  our  hymn-books  and  our  psalters  we  appeal  to 

other  altars. 

And  to-day  we  bid  *'good  Christian  men  rejoice!" 

High  noon  behind  the  tamarisks — the  sun  is  hot  above  us — 

As  at  Home  the  Christmas  Day  is  breaking  wan, 
They  wiQ  drink  our  healths  at  dinner — those  who  tell  us  how 
they  love  us, 
And  forget  us  till  another  year  be  gone ! 

Oh,  the  toil  that  knows  no  breaking !     Oh,  the  Heim" 
weh,  ceaseless,  aching! 
Oh,  the  black  dividing  Sea  and  alien  Plain! 
Youth  was  cheap — wherefore  we  sold  it. 
Gold  was  good — we  hoped  to  hold  it. 
And  to-day  we  know  the  fullness  of  our  gain. 


Otl^er  X/ersGS  '  447 

Gray  dusk  behind  the  tamarisks — the  parrots  fly  together — 

As  the  sun  is  sinking  slowly  over  Home ; 
And  his  last  ray  seems  to  mock  us  shackled  in  a  lifelong  tether 
That  drags  us  back  howe'er  so  far  we  roam. 

Hard  her  service,  poor  her  payment — she  in  ancient, 
tattered  raiment — 
India,  she  the  grim  Stepmother  of  our  kind. 
If  a  year  of  life  be  lent  her,  if  her  temple's  shrine  we 
enter, 
The  door  is  shut — we  may  not  look  behind. 

Black  night  behind   the    tamarisks — the   owls  begin  their 
chorus- — 
As  the  conches  from  the  temple  scream  and  bray. 
With  the  fruitless  years  behind  us,  and  the  hopeless  years 
before  us, 
Let  us  honor,  O  my  brothers,  Christmas  Day ! 

Call  a  truce,  then,  to  our  labors- — let  us  feast  with 
friends  and  neighbors, 
And  be  merry  as  the  custom  of  our  caste; 
For  if  ''faint  and  forced  the  laughter,"  and  if  sadness 
follow  after, 
We  are  richer  by  one  mocking  Christmas  past. 


PAGETT,   M.P. 

The  toad  beneath  the  harrow  knows 
Exactly  where  each  tooth-point  goes. 
The  butterfly  upon  the  road 
Preaches  co/^tentnxont  to  that  toad. 

PaGett,  M.P.,  was  a  liar,  and  a  fluent  liar  therewith- 

He  spoke  of  the  heat  of  India  as  the  ''Asian  Solar 

Came  on  a  four  months'  visit,  to  "stud}^  the  East,'*  in  ITo- 

vember. 
And  I  got  him  to  sign  an  agreement  vowing  to  stay  tiU  Sep- 
tember. 


448  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  \{ipUT)(^ 

March  came  in  with  the  koil.     Pagett  was  cool  and  gay, 
Called  me  a  "bloated  Brahmin, ' *  talked  of  my  "princely  pay. " 
March  went  out  with  the  roses.      "Where  is  your  heat?" 

said  he. 
"Coming,"  said  I  to  Pagett.     "Skittles!"  said  Pagett,  M.P. 

April  began  with  the  punkah,  coolies,  and  prickly-heat — 
Pagett  was  dear  to  mosquitoes,  sandflies  found  him  a  treat. 
He  grew  speckled  and  lumpy — hammered,  I  grieve  to  say, 
Aryan  brothers  who  fanned  him,  in  an  illiberal  way. 

May  set  in  with  a  dust-storm — Pagett  went  down  with  the  sun. 
All  the  delights  of  the  season  tickled  him  one  by  one. 
Imprimis — ten  days'  "liver" — due  to  his  drinking  beer; 
Later,  a  dose  of  fever — slight,  but  he  called  it  severe. 

Dysent'ry  touched  him  in  June,  after  the  Chota  Bursat — 
Lowered  his  portly  person — made  him  yearn  to  depart. 
He  didn't  call  me  a  "Brahmin,"  or  "bloated,"  or  "overpaid," 
But  seemed  to  think  it  a  wonder  that  any  one  stayed. 

July  was  a  trifle  unhealthy— -Pagett  was  ill  with  fear, 
'Called  it  the  "Cholera  Morbus,"  hinted  that  life  was  dear. 
He  babbled  of  "Eastern  exile,"  and  mentioned  his  home  with 

tears ; 
But  I  hadn't  seen  my  children  for  close  upon  seven  years. 

We  reached  a  hundred  and  twenty  once  in  the  Court  at  noon 
(I've  mentioned  Pagett  was  portly),   Pagett  went  ofi:*  in  a 

swoon. 
That  was  an  end  to  the  business;  Pagett,  the  perjured,  fled 
With  a  practical,  working  knowledge  of  "Solar  Myths"  in 

his  head. 

And  I  laughed  as  I  drove  from  the  station,  but  the  mirth 

died  out  on  my  lips 
As  I  thought  of  the  fools  like  Pagett  who  write  of  their 

"Eastern  trips," 
And  the  sneers  of  the  traveled  idiots  who  duly  misgovern  the 

land. 
And  I  prayed  to  the  Lord  to  deliver  another  one  into  my  hand. 


Otl?ir  Uerses  449 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   WOMEN 

{Lady  Dufferiii's  Fund  for  medical  aid  to  the  Women  of  India) 

HoAV  shall  she  know  the  worship  we  would  do  her? 

The  walls  are  high,  and  she  is  very  far. 
How  shall  the  women's  message  reach  unto  her 
Above  the  tumult  of  the  packed  jazaar? 
Free  wind  of  March,  against  the  lattice  blowing, 
Bear  thou  our  thanks,  lest  she  depart  unknowing. 

Go  forth  across  the  fields  we  may  not  roam  in, 
Go  forth  beyond  the  trees  that  rim  the  city, 
To  whatsoe'er  fair  place  she  hath  her  home  in, 
Who  dowered  us  with  wealth  of  love  and  pity. 
Out  of  our  shadow  pass,  and  seek  her  singing — • 
"I  have  no  gifts  but  Love  alone  for  bringing." 

Say  that  we  be  a  feeble  folk  who  greet  her. 

But  old  in  grief,  and  very  wise  in  tears ; 
Say  that  we,  being  desolate,  entreat  her 
That  she  forget  us  not  in  after  years ; 
For  we  have  seen  the  light,  and  it  were  grievous 
To  dim  that  dawning  if  our  lady  leave  us. 

By  life  that  ebbed  with  none  to  stanch  the  failing, 

By  Love's  sad  harvest  garnered  in  the  spring. 
When  Love  in  ignorance  wept  unavailing 

O'er  young  buds  dead  before  their  blossoming; 
By  all  the  gray  owl  watched,  the  pale  moon  viewed, 
In  past  grim  years,  declare  our  gratitude! 

By  hands  uplifted  to  the  Gods  that  heard  not. 
By  gifts  that  found  no  favor  in  their  sight. 
By  faces  bent  above  the  babe  that  stirred  not, 
By  nameless  horrors  of  the  stifling  night; 
By  ills  f oredone,  by  peace  her  toils  discover, 
Bid  Earth  be  good  beneath  and  Heaven  above  her ! 


450  U/orl![^s  of  r^adyard  l^iplii}<§ 

If  she  have  sent  her  servants  in  our  pain, 

If  she  have  fought  with  Death  and  dulled  his  sword ; 
If  she  have  given  back  our  sick  again 

And  to  the  breast  the  weakling  lips  restored, 
Is  it  a  Httle  thing  that  she  has  wrought? 
Then  Life  and  Death  and  Motherhood  be  naught. 

Go  forth,  O  wind,  our  message  on  thy  wings, 

And  they  shall  hear  thee  pass  and  bid  thee  speed, 
In  reed-roofed  hut,  or  white-walled  home  of  kings, 
Who  have  been  helpen  by  her  in  their  need. 

All  spring  shall  give  thee  fragrance,  and  the  wheat 
Shall  be  a  tasseled  floorcloth  to  thy  feet. 

Haste,  for  our  hearts  are  with  thee,  take  no  rest! 

Loud-voiced  embassador,  from  sea  to  sea 
Proclaim  the  blessing,  manifold,  confest. 
Of  those  in  darkness  by  her  hand  set  free, 
Then  very  softly  to  her  presence  move. 
And  whisper:  "Lady,  lo,  they  know  and  love  I" 


A    BALLADE    OF   JAKKO    HILL 

One  moment  bid  the  horses  v^ait, 

Since  tiffin  is  not  laid  till  three. 
Below  the  upward  path  and  straight 

You  climbed  a  year  ago  with  me. 
Love  came  upon  us  suddenly 

And  loosed — an  idle  hour  to  kill — 
A  headless,  armless  armory 

That  smote  us  both  on  Jakko  Hill. 

Ah  Heaven!  we  would  wait  and  wait 
Through  Time  and  to  Eternity ! 

Ah  Heaven!  we  could  conquer  Fate 
With  more  than  Godlike  constancy! 


Oti?G?   Uerses  451 

I  cut  the  date  upon  a  tree — 

Here  stand  the  clumsy  figures  still : 

"10-7-85,  A.D." 
Damp  with  the  mist  on  Jakko  Hill. 

What  came  of  high  resolve  and  great, 

And  until  Death  fidehtj? 
Whose  horse  is  waiting  at  your  gate? 

Whose  'rickshaw- wheels  ride  over  me? 
No  Saint's,  I  swear;  and — let  me  see 

To-night  what  names  your  programme  fill — 
We  drift  asunder  merrily, 

As  drifts  the  mist  on  Jakko  Hill ! 

L' ENVOI 

Princess,  behold  our  ancient  state 

Has  clean  departed ;  and  we  see 
'Twas  Idleness  we  took  for  Fate 

That  bound  light  bonds  on  you  and  me. 
Amen !     Here  ends  the  comedy 

Where  it  began  in  all  good  will ; 
Since  Love  and  Leave  together  flee 

As  driven  mist  on  Jakko  Hill! 


THE   PLEA   OF  THE   SIMLA  DANCERS 

Too  late,  alas!  the  song 

To  remedy  the  wrong ; — 
The  rooms  are  taken  from  us,  swept  and  garnished  for  their  fate. 

But  these  tear-besprinkled  pages 

Shall  attest  to  future  ages 
That  we  cried  against  the  crime  of  it — too  late,  alas  I  too  late! 

**What  have  we  ever  done  to  bear  this  grudge?'' 
Was  there  no  room  save  only  in  Benmore 

For  docket,  duftar,  and  for  office  drudge, 
That  you  usurp  our  smoothest  dancing  floor? 


452  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplir>^ 

Must  babus  do  their  work  on  polished  teak? 

Are  ball-roonis  fittest  for  the  ink  you  spill? 
Was  there  no  other  cheaper  house  to  seek? 

You  might  have  left  them  all  at  Strawberry  Hill. 

We  never  harmed  you!     Innocent  our  guise, 

Dainty  our  shining  feet,  our  voices  low ; 
And  we  revolved  to  divers  melodies, 

And  we  were  happy  but  a  year  ago. 
To-night,  the  moon  that  watched  our  lightsome 
wiles— 

That  beamed  upon  us  through  the  deodars — 
Is  wan  with  gazing  on  official  files. 

And  desecrating  desks  disgust  the  stars. 

E"ay !  by  the  memory  of  tuneful  nights— 

Nay !  by  the  witchery  of  flying  feet- 
Nay  !  by  the  glamour  of  f  oredone  delights— > 

By  all  things  merry,  musical,  and  meet- 
By  wine  that  sparkled,  and  by  sparkling  eyes— 

By  wailing  waltz— by  reckless  gallop's  strain- 
By  dim  verandas  and  by  soft  replies. 

Give  us  our  ravished  bail-room  back  again! 

Or — hearken  to  the  curse  we  lay  on  youi 

The  ghosts  of  waltzes  shall  perplex  your  brain, 
And  murmurs  of  past  merriment  pursue 

Your  'wildered  clerks  that  they  indite  in  vain; 
And,  when  you  count  your  poor  Provincial  mil- 
lions. 

The  only  figures  that  your  pen  shall  frame 
Shall  be  the  figures  of  dear,  dear  cotillions 

Danced  out  in  tumult  long  before  you  came. 

Yea!  "/S'ea  Saw^^  shall  upset  your  estimates, 
' ' Dream  Faces' '  shall  your  heavy  heads  bemuse. 

Because  your  hand,  unheeding,  desecrates 
Our  temple ;  fit  for  higher,  worthier  use. 


Otl^er  Verses  453 

And  all  the  long  verandas,  eloquent 

With  echoes  of  a  score  of  Simla  years, 
Shall  plague  you  with  unbidden  sentiment — 

Babbling  of  kisses,  laughter,  love,  and  tears. 

So  shall  you  mazed  amid  old  memories  stand, 

So  shall  you  toil,  and  shall  accomplish  naught, 
And  ever  in  your  ears  a  phantom  Band 

Shall  blare  away  the  staid  official  thought. 
Wherefore — and  ere  this  awful  curse  be  spoken, 

Cast  out  your  swarthy  sacrilegious  train. 
And  give — ere  dancing  cease  and  hearts  be  broken— 

Give  us  our  ravished  ball-room  back  again ! 


BALLAD    OF   FISHER'S    BOARDING- 
HOUSE 

That  night,  when  through  the  mooring-chains 
The  wide-eyed,  corpse  rolled  free, 

To  blunder  down  by  Garden  Reach 
And  rot  at  Kedgeree, 

The  Tale  the  Hughli  told  the  shoal 
The  lean  shoal  told  to  me, 

'TwAS  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

Where  sailor-men  reside, 
And  there  were  men  of  all  the  ports 

From  Mississip  to  Clyde, 
And  regally  they  spat  and  smoked, 

And  f earsomely  they  lied. 

They  lied  about  the  purple  Sea 
That  gave  them  scanty  bread, 

They  Hed  about  the  Earth  beneath, 
The  Heavens  overhead, 

For  they  had  looked  too  often  on 
Black  rum  when  that  was  red. 


464  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplii>(J 

They  told  their  tales  of  wreck  and  wrong, 
Of  shame  and  lust  and  fraud, 

They  backed  their  toughest  statements  with 
The  Brimstone  of  the  Lord, 

And  crackling  oaths  went  to  and  fro 
Across  the  fist-banged  board. 

And  there  was  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane, 

Bull-throated,  bare  of  arm, 
Who  carried  on  his  hairy  chest 

The  maid  Ultruda's  charm— 
The  little  silver  crucifix 

That  keeps  a  man  from  harm. 

And  there  was  Jake  Without-the-Eare, 

And  Pamba  the  Malay, 
And  Carboy  Gin  the  Guinea  cook, 

And  Luz  from  Vigo  Bay, 
And  Honest  Jack  who  sold  them  slops 

And  harvested  their  pay. 
And  there  was  Salem  Hardieker, 

A  lean  Bostonian  he — 
Russ,  German,  English,  Halfbreed,  Fins^ 

Yank,  Dane,  and  Portugee, 
At  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

They  rested  from  the  sea. 

Kow  Anne  of  Austria  shared  their  drin^ 

Collinga  knew  her  fame. 
From  Tarnau  in  Galicia 

To  Jaun  Bazaar  she  came, 
To  eat  the  bread  of  infamy 

And  take  the  wage  of  shame. 

She  held  a  dozen  men  to  heel- — 
Rich  spoil  of  war  was  hers. 

In  hose  and  gown  and  ring  and  chain, 
From  twenty  mariners. 

And,  by  Port  Law,  that  week,  men  called 
Her  Salem  Hardieker's. 


Otl^er  Verses  455 

But  seamen  learnt — what  landsmen  know — 

That  neither  gifts  nor  gain 
Can  hold  a  winking  Light  o'  Love 

Or  Fancy's  flight  restrain, 
When  Anne  of  Austria  rolled  her  eyes     ' 

On  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane. 

Since  Life  is  strife,  and  strife  means  knife^ 

From  Howrah  to  the  Bay, 
And  he  may  die  before  the  dawn 

Who  liquored  out  the  day, 
In  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

We  woo  while  yet  we  may. 

But  cold  was  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane, 

Bull-throated,  bare  of  arm. 
And  laughter  shook  the  chest  beneath 

The  maid  Ultruda's  charm — 
The  little  silver  crucifix 

That  keeps  a  man  from  harm. 
**You  speak  to  Salem  Hardieker, 

You  was  his  girl,  I  know. 
I  ship  mineselfs  to-morrow,  see, 

Und  round  the  Skaw  we  go. 
South,  down  the  Cattegat,  by  Hjeli% 

To  Besser  m  Saro. ' ' 

When  love  rejected  turns  to  hate, 

All  ill  betide  the  man. 
**You  speak  to  Salem  Hardieker" — 

She  spoke  as  woman  can. 
A  scream — a  sob — ^^'He  called  me — names  I'' 

And  then  the  fray  began. 

An  oath  from  Salem  Hardieker, 

A  shriek  upon  the  stairs, 
A  dance  of  shadows  on  the  Wall,    ^ 

A  knife-thrust  unawares — 
And  Hans  came  down,  as  cattle  drop. 

Across  the  broken  chairs. 


46B  U/orl^8  of  F^udyard  I^ipHp^ 

In  Anne  of  Austria's  trembling  hands 

The  weary  head  fell  low : 
**I  ship  mineselfs  to-morrow,  straight 

For  Besser  in  Saro : 
Und  there  Ultruda  comes  to  me 

At  Easter,  nnd  I  go 

•*Soiith,  down  the  Cattegat —    "What's  hexe? 

There^ — are — ^no — lights — to — guide  I" 
The  mutter  ceased,  the  spirit  passed 

And  Anne  of  Austria  cried 
In  Fultah  Fisher's  boarding-house 

When  Hans  the  mighty  died. 

Thus  slew  they  Hans  the  blue-eyed  Dane^ 

Bull-throated,  bare  of  arm, 
But  Anne  of  Austria  looted  first 

The  maid  Ultruda's  charm — 
•  The  little  silver  crucifix 

That  keeps  a  man  from  harm. 


"AS  THE   BELL  CLINKS" 

As  I  left  the  Halls  at  Lumley,  rose  the  yision  of  a  comely 
Maid  last  season  worshiped  dumbly,  watched  with  fervor 

from  afar; 
And  I  wondered  idly,  blindly,  if  the  maid  would  greet  me 

kindly. 
That  was  all — ^the  rest  was  settled  by  the  clinking  tonga-bar. 
Yea,  my  life  and  hers  were  coupled  by  the  tonga  coupling-bar. 

For  my  misty  meditation,  at  the  second  changing  station, 
Suffered  sudden  dislocation,  fled  before  the  tuneless  jar 
Of  a  Wagner  ohbligato,  scherzo,  double  hand  staccato^ 
Played  on  either  pony's  saddle  by  the  clacking  tonga-bar — 
Played  with  human  speech,  I  fancied,  by  the  jigging,  jolting 
bar. 


Otl^er  Uerses  457 

"She  was  sweet,"  thought  I,  "last  season,  but  'twere  surely 
wild  unreason 

Such  tiny  hope  to  freeze  on  as  was  offered  by  my  Star, 

When  she  whispered,  something  sadly :  *I--we  feel  your  go- 
ing badly!'  ^ 

*^And  you  let  the  chance  escape  youf^  rapped  the  rattling 
tonga-bar. 

'^  What  a  chance  -and  zvhat  an  idiot P^  clicked  the  vicious 
tonga-bar. 

Heart  of  man — oh,  heart  of  putty  I    Had  I  gone  by  Kakahutti, 
On  the  old  Hill-road  and  rutty,  I  had  'scaped  that  fatal  car, 
But  his  fortune  each  must  bide  by,  so  I  watched  the  mile- 
stones slide  by, 
To  *'  You  call  on  Her  to-morrow P^— fugue  with  cymbals  by 

the  bar— 
*^  You  must  call  on  Her  fo-morroti?.^"— post-horn  gallop  by 
the  bar. 

Yet  a  further  stage  my  goal  on—- we  were  whirling  down  to 
Solon, 

With  a  double  lurch  and  roll  on,  best  foot  foremost,  ganz  und 
gar— 

*^She  was  very  sweet,"  I  hinted.  "If  a  kiss  had  been  im- 
printed—?" 

"  '  Would  ha'  saved  a  world  of  troubleP^  clashed  the  busy 
tonga-bar. 

^^^Been  accepted  or  rejectedP^  banged  and  clanged  th© 
tonga-bar. 

Then  a  notion  wild  and  daring,  'spite  the  income  tax's  paring. 
And  a  hasty  thought  of  sharing — less  than  many  incomes  are. 
Made  me  put  a  question  private,  you  can  guess  what  I  would 

drive  at. 
"Fow  must  work  the  sum  to  prove  it,^^  clanked  the  careless 

tonga-bar. 
** Simple  Rule  of  Two  will  prove  it^'^  Hlted  back  the  tonga- 
bar. 
Vol.3.  -  20 


458  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  t^iplii)($ 

It  was  under  Khyraghaut  I  mused:  "Suppose  the  maid  be 
haughty — 

(There  are  lovers  rich — and  forty) — wait  some  wealthy  Avatar? 

Answer,  monitor  untiring,  'twixt  the  ponies  twain  perspir- 
ing!" 

^^ Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,^^  creaked  the  straining 
tonga-bar. 

^^Can  I  tell  you  ere  you  ask  Herf  pounded  slow  the  tonga- 
bar. 

Last,  the  Tara  Devi  turning  showed  the  lights  of  Simla  burn- 
ing, 
Lit  my  little  lazy  yearning  to  a  fiercer  flame  by  far. 
As  below  the  Mall  we  jingled,   through  my  very  heart  it 

tingled — 
Did  the  iterated  order  of  the  threshing  tonga-bar — 
"  Try  your  luck — you  can^t  do  better P^  twanged  the  loosened 
tonga-bar. 


AN    OLD   SONG 

60  long  as  'neath  the  Kalka  hills 

The  tonga-horn  shall  ring. 
So  long  as  down  the  Solon  dip 

The  hard-held  ponies  swing, 
So  long  as  Tara  Devi  sees 

The  lights  o'  Simla  town, 
So  long  as  Pleasure  calls  us  up, 

And  duty  drives  us  down, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  pair  so  happy  as  we  two9 

So  long  as  Aces  take  the  King, 

Or  backers  take  the  bet. 
So  long  as  debt  leads  men  to  wed, 

Or  marriage  leads  to  debt, 


Otl^er  Verses  459 

So  long  as  little  luncheons,  Love, 

And  scandal  hold  their  vogue, 
While  there  is  sport  at  Annandale 
Or  whisky  at  Jutogh, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you. 
What  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  imof 

So  long  as  down  the  rocking  floor 

The  raving  polka  spins, 
So  long  as  Kitchen  Lancers  spur 

The  maddened  violins. 
So  long  as  through  the  whirling  smoke 

We  hear  the  oft-told  tale  t 
"Twelve  hundred  in  the  Lotteries," 

And  Whatshername  for  sale? 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you. 
We  HI  play  the  game  and  win  it  too^ 

Bo  long  as  Lust  or  Lucre  tempt 

Straight  riders  from  the  course, 
So  long  as  with  each  drink  we  pour 

Black  brewage  of  Remorse, 
So  long  as  those  unloaded  guns 

We  keep  beside  the  bed 
Blow  off,  by  obvious  accident. 

The  lucky  owner's  head. 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you. 
What  can  Life  kill  or  Death  nndof 

So  long  as  Death  'twixt  dance  and  dance 

Chills  best  and  bravest  blood, 
And  drops  the  reckless  rider  down 

The  rotten,  rain-soaked  khud, 
So  long  as  rumors  from  the  !N"orth 

Make  loving  wives  afraid. 
So  long  as  Burma  takes  the  boy 

And  typhoid  kills  the  maid, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  knife  can  cut  our  love  in  twof 


460  U/ort^s  of  F^adyard  \{ip\iY)(^ 

By  all  tliat  lights  our  daily  life 

Or  works  our  lifelong  woe, 
From  Boileaugunge  to  Simla  Downs 

And  those  grim  glades  below, 
Where,  heedless  of  the  flying  hoof 

And  clamor  overhead, 
Sleep,  with  the  gray  langur  for  guard, 

Our  very  scornful  Dead, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
All  Earth  is  servant  to  us  two? 

By  Docket,  Billetdoux,  and  File, 

By  Mountain,  Cliff,  and  Fir, 
By  Fan  and  Sword  and  Office-box, 

By  Corset,  Plume,  and  Spur, 
By  Riot,  Revel,  Waltz,  and  War, 

By  Women,  Work,  and  Bills, 
By  all  the  life  that  fizzes  in 

The  everlasting  Hills,     . 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  pair  so  happy  as  we  twoP 


CERTAIN    MAXIMS    OF    HAFIZ 

I 

If  It  be  pleasant  to  look  on,  stalled  in  the  packed  serai, 
Does  not  the  Young  Man  try  Its  temper  and  pace  ere  he  buyV 
If  She  be  pleasant  to  look  on,  what  does  the  Young  Man  say? 
*'Lol  She  is  pleasant  to  look  on,  give  Her  to  me  to-day  I" 

II 

Yea,  though  a  Kafir  die,  to  him  is  remitted  Jehannum 

If  he  borrowed  in  life  from  a  native  at  sixty  per  cent  per 

annum. 

Ill 
Blister  we  not  for  hursati?     So  when  the  heart  is  vext, 
The  pain  of  one  maiden's  refusal  is  drowned  in  the  pain  of 

the  next. 


Otl?er  Uerses  461 

IV 

The  temper  of  chums,  the  love  of  your  wife,  and  a  new  piano's 

tune— 
Which  of  the  three  will  you  trust  at  the  end  of  an  Indian  June? 

V 

"Who  are  the  rulers  of  Ind — to  whom  shall  we  bow  the  knee? 
Make  your  peace  with  the  women,  and  men  will  make  you 
L.  G. 

VI 

Does  the  woodpecker  flit  round  the  young  ferasTif    Does 

grass  clothe  a  new-built  wall? 
Is  she  under  thirty,  the  woman  who  holds  a  boy  in  her  thrall? 

VII 

If  She  grow  suddenly  gracious — reflect.     Is  it  aU  for  thee? 
The  black-buck  is  stalked  through  the  bullock,   and   Man 
through  jealousy. 

VIII 

Seek  not  for  favor  of  women.     So  shall  you  find  it  indeed. 
Does  not  the  boar  break  cover  just  when  you're  hghting  a 
weed? 

IX 

If  He  play,  being  young  and  unskillful,  for  shekels  of  silver 

and  gold. 
Take  His  money,  my  son,  praising  Allah.     The  kid  was 

ordained  to  be  sold. 

X 

"With  a  "weed"  among  men  or  horses  verily  this  is  the  best, 
That  you  work  him  in  oflSce  or  dog-cart  lightly — but  give 
him  no  rest. 

XI 

Pleasant  the  snaffle  of  Courtship,  improving  the  manners  and 
carriage ; 

But  the  colt  who  is  wise  will  abstain  from  the  terrible  thorn- 
bit  of  Marriage. 


462  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 


XII 


As  the  thriftless  gold  of  the  babul,  so  is  the  gold  that  we  spend 
On  a  Derby  Sweep,  or  our  neighbor's  wife,  or  the  horse  that 
we  buy  from  a  friend. 


XIII 

The  ways  of  man  with  a  maid  be  strange,  yet  simple  and  tame 
To  the  ways  of  a  man  with  a  horse,  when  selling  or  racing 
that  same. 

XIV 

In  public  Her  face  turneth  to  thee,  and  pleasant  Her  smile 

when  ye  meet. 
It  is  ill.     The  cold  rocks  of  El-Gidar  smile  thus  on  the  waves 

at  their  feet. 
In  public  Her  face  is  averted, with  anger  She  nameth  thy  name. 
It  is  well.     Was  there  ever  a  loser  content  with  the  loss  of 

the  game? 

XV 

If  She  have  spoken  a  word,  remember  thy  lips  are  sealed. 

And  the  Brand  of  the  Dog  is  upon  him  by  whom  is  the  secret 
revealed. 

If  She  have  written  a  letter,  delay  not  an  instant,  but  burn  it. 

Tear  it  in  pieces,  O  Fool,  and  the  wind  to  her  mate  shall  re- 
turn it ! 

If  there  be  trouble  to  Herward,  and  a  lie  of  the  blackest  can 
clear. 

Lie,  while  thy  lips  can  move  or  a  man  is  alive  to  hear. 

XVI 

My  Son,  if  a  maiden  deny  thee  and  scufflingly  bid  thee"  give 

o'er, 
Yet  lip  meets  with  lip  at  the  lastward — get  out !     She  has 

been  there  before. 
They  are  pecked  on  the  ear  and  the  chin  and  the  nose  who 

are  lacking  in  lore. 


Obiter  l/erses    .  463 

XVII 

If  we  fall  in  the  race,  though  we  win,  the  hoof-slide  is  scarred 

on  the  course. 
Though  Allah  and   Earth   pardon   Sin,   remaineth   forever 

Remorse. 

XVIII 

*'By  all  I  am  misunderstood!"  if  the  Matron  shall  say,  or 
the  Maid : 

' '  Alas !  I  do  not  understand, ' '  my  son,  be  thou  nowise  afraid. 

In  vain  in  the  sight  of  the  Bird  is  the  net  of  the  Fowler  dis- 
played. 

XIX 

My  son,  if  I,  Hafiz,  thy  father,  take  hold  of  thy  knees  in  my 

pain, 
Demanding  thy  name  on  stamped  paper,  one  day  or  one  hour — 

refrain. 
Are  the  links  of  thy  fetters  so  light  that  thou  cravest  another 

man's  chain?    • 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  HEAD 

There^s  a  widow  in  sleepy  Chester 

Who  weeps  for  her  only  son; 
There^s  a  grave  on  the  Pabeng  Biver, 

A  grave  that  the  Burmans  shun, 
And  there^s  Suhadar  Prag  Tewarri 

Who  tells  how  the  work  was  done, 

A  Snider  squibbed  in  the  jungle, 

Somebody  laughed  and  fled, 
And  the  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Picked  up  their  Subaltern  dead. 
With  a  big  blue  mark  in  his  forehead 

And  the  back  blown  out  of  his  head. 


464  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

Subadar  Prag  Tewarri, 

Jemadar  Hira  Lai, 
Took  command  of  the  party, 

Twenty  rifles  in  all, 
Marched  them  down  to  the  river 

As  the  day  was  beginning  to  fall. 

They  buried  the  boy  by  the  river, 

A  blanket  over  his  face — 
They  wept  for  their  dead  Lieutenant, 

The  men  of  an  alien  race — 
They  made  a  sarnddh  in  his  honor, 

A  mark  for  his  resting-place. 

For  they  swore  by  the  Holy  "Water, 
They  swore  by  the  salt  they  ate, 

That  the  soul  of  Lieutenant  Eshmitt  Sahib 
Should  go  to  his  God  in  state ; 

With  fifty  file  of  Burman 
To  open  him  Heaven's  gate. 

The  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Marched  till  the  break  of  day. 
Till  they  came  to  the  rebel  village^ 

The  village  of  Pabengmay — 
A  jingal  covered  the  clearing, 

Calthrops  hampered  the  way. 
Subadar  Prag  Tewarri, 

Bidding  them  load  with  ball, 
Halted  a  dozen  rifles 

Under  the  village  wall; 
Sent  out  a  flanking-party 

With  Jemadar  Hira  Lai. 

The  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 
Shouted  and  smote  and  slew, 

Turning  the  grinning  jingal 
On  to  the  howling  crew. 

The  Jemadar's  flanking-party 
Butchered  the  folk  who  flew. 


Otl7er  l/erses  465 

Long  was  the  morn  of  slaughter, 

Long  was  the  list  of  slain, 
Five  score  heads  were  taken, 

Five  score  heads  and  twain; 
And  the  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Went  back  to  their  grave  again, 

Each  man  bearing  a  basket 

Red  as  his  palms  that  day, 
Red  as  the  blazing  village — 

The  village  of  Pabengmay. 
And  the '"'  drip-drip-drip^^  from  the  baskets 

Reddened  the  grass  by  the  way. 

They  made  a  pile  of  their  trophies 

High  as  a  tall  man's  chin, 
Head  upon  head  distorted, 

Set  in  a  sightless  grin, 
Anger  and  pain  and  terror  ' 

Stamped  on  the  smoke-scorched  skin. 

Subadar  Prag  Tewarri 

Put  the  head  of  the  Boh 
On  the  top  of  the  mound  of  triumph, 

The  head  of  his  son  below. 
With  the  sword  and  the  peacock-banner 

That  the  world  might  behold  and  know. 

Thus  the  samddh  was  perfect, 

Thus  was  the  lesson  plain 
Of  the  wrath  of  the  First  Shikaris — 

The  price  of  a  white  man  slain ; 
And  the  men  of  the  First  Shikaris 

Went  back  into  camp  again. 

Then  a  silence  came  to  the  river, 

A  hush  fell  over  the  shore. 
And  Bohs  that  were  brave  departed 


466  U/or^s  of  l^udyard  l^iplip^ 

And  Sniders  squibbed  no  more; 

For  the  Burmans  said 

That  a  kullah^s  head 
Must  be  paid  for  with  heads  five  score. 

There's  a  widow  in  sleepy  Chester 
Who  weeps  for  her  only  son; 

There's  a  grave  on  the  Pabeng  River ^ 
A  grave  that  the  Burmans  shun, 

And  there's  Subadar  Prag  Teivarri 
Who  tells  how  the  work  was  done. 


THE   MOON    OF   OTHER    DAYS 

Beneath  the  deep  veranda's  shade 

"When  bats  begin  to  fly, 
I  sit  me  down  and  watch — alas! — 

Another  evening  die. 
Blood-red  behind  the  sere  ferash 

She  rises  through  the  haze. 
Sainted  Diana!  can  that  be 

The  Moon  of  Other  Days? 

Ah!  shade  of  little  Kitty  Smith, 

Sweet  Saint  of  Kensington! 
Say,  was  it  ever  thus  at  Home 

The  Moon  of  August  shone, 
When  arm  in  arm  we  wandered  long 

Through  Putney's  evening  haze. 
And  Hammersmith  was  Heaven  beneath 

The  Moon  of  Other  Days? 

But  Wandle's  stream  is  Sutlej  now, 

And  Putney's  evening  haze 
The  dust  that  half  a  hundred  kine 

Before  my  window  raise. 


Ott?er  Uerses  467 

Unkempt,  unclean,  athwart  the  mist 

The  seething  city  looms. 
In  place  of  Putney's  golden  gorse 

The  sickly  babul  blooms. 

Glare  down,  old  Hecate,  through  the  dust, 

And  bid  the  pie-dog  yell, 
Draw  from  the  drain  its  typhoid-germ. 

From  each  bazaar  its  smell; 
Yea,  suck  the  fever  from  the  tank 

And  sap  my  strength  therewith : 
Thank  Heaven,  you  show  a  smiling  face 

To  little  Kitty  Smith! 


THE   OVERLAND    MAIL 

{Foot-Service  to  the  Hills) 

In  the  Name  of  the  Empress  of  India,  make  way, 
O  Lords  of  the  Jungle,  v/herever  you  roam. 

The  woods  are  astir  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
We  exiles  are  waiting  for  letters  from  Home. 

Let  the  robber  retreat— let  the  tiger  turn  tail — 

In  the  ISTame  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland  Mail! 

With  a  jingle  of  bells  as  the  dusk  gathers  in. 

He  turns  to  the  footpath  that  heads  up  the  hill — 

The  bags  on  his  back  and  a  cloth  round  his  chin. 
And,  tucked  in  his  waist-belt,  the  Post  Office  biB : 

"Dispatched  on  this  date,  as  received  by  the  rail, 

Per  runner,  two  bags  of  the  Overland  Mail." 

Is  the  torrent  in  spate?     He  must  ford  it  or  swim. 
Has  the  rain  wrecked  the  road?     He  must  climb  by 
the  cliff. 
Does  the  tempest  cry  "Halt"?     What  are  tempests  to 
him? 
The  Service  admits  not  a  '*but"  or  an  '*if." 


4:iiS  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplip^ 

While  the  breath's  in  his  mouth,  he  must  bear  without 

fail, 
In  the  Name  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland  Mail. 

From  aloe  to  rose-oak,  from  rose-oak  to  fir, 
From  level  to  upland,  from  upland  to  crest, 

From  rice-field  to  rock-ridge,  from  rock-ridge  to  spur, 
Fly  the  soft  sandaled  feet,  strains  the  brawny  brown 
chest. 

From  rail  to  ravine — -to  the  peak  from  the  vale— 

Up,  up  through  the  night  goes  the  Overland  Mail. 

There's  a  speck  on  the  hillside,  a  dot  on  the  road — 
A  jingle  of  bells  on  the  footpath  below — 

There's  a  scuffle  above  in  the  monkey's  abode — 
The  world  is  awake,  and  the  clouds  are  aglow. 

For  the  great  Sun  himself  must  attend  to  the  hail : 

^^In  the  Name  of  the  Empress,  the  Overland  Mail!" 


WHAT   THE   PEOPLE    SAID 

(June  21st,  1887) 

By  the  well,  where  the  bullocks  go 

Silent  and  blind  and  slow — 

By  the  field  where  the  young  corn  dies 

In  the  face  of  the  sultry  skies. 

They  have  heard,  as  the  dull  Earth  hears 

The  voice  of  the  wind  of  an.hour. 

The  sound  of  the  Great  Queen's  voice: 

"My  God  hath  given  me  years, 

Hath  granted  dominion  and  power: 

And  I  bid  you,  O  Land,  rejoice." 

And  the  plowman  settles  the  share 
More  deep  in  the  grudging  clod ; 
For  he  saith;  **The  wheat  is  my  care, 
And  the  rest  is  the  will  of  God. 


Otl?er  ITerses  469 

^*He  sent  the  Mahratta  spear 

As  He  sendeth  the  rain, 

And  the  Mlech,  in  the  fated  year. 

Broke  the  spear  in  twain, 

And  was  broken  in  turn.     Who  knows 

How  our  Lords  make  strife? 

It  is  good  that  the  young  wheat  grows. 

For  the  bread  is  Life." 

Then,  far  and  near,  as  the  twilight  dreWg 

Hissed  up  to  the  scornful  dark 
Great  serpents,  blazing,  of  red  and  bluej 
That  rose  and  faded,  and  rose  anew. 

That  the  Land  might  wonder  and  mas^ 
*' To-day  is  a  day  of  days,"  they  said, 
*'Make  merry,  O  People,  all!" 
And  the  Plowman  listened  and  bowed  his  head  ^ 
"To-day  and  to-morrow  God's  will,"  he  ssid, 
As  he  trimmed  the  lamps  on  the  wall. 

"He  sendeth  us  years  that  are  good. 

As  He  sendeth  the  dearth. 

He  giveth  to  each  man  his  food,  - 

Or  Her  food  to  the  Earth. 

Our  Kings  and  our  Queens  are  afaa>— 

On  their  peoples  be  peace — 

God  bringeth  the  rain  to  the  Bar, 

That  our  cattle  increase." 

And  the  Plowman  settled  the  share 

More  deep  in  the  sun-dried  clod : 

"Mogul,  Mahratta,  and  Mlech  from  the  Kofih, 

And  "White  Queen  over  the  Seas — 

God  raiseth  them  up  and  driveth  them  foiN^ 

As  the  dust  of  the  plowshare  flies  in  the  bTeeseei 

But  the  wheat  and  the  cattle  are  all  my  caiie, 

And  the  rest  is  the  will  of  God." 


470  U/orii^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplii>^ 


THE   UNDERTAKER'S    HORSE 

"To-tschin-shu  is  condemned  to  death.     How  can  he  drink  tea  with 
the  Executioner?" — Japanese  Proverb 

The  eldest  son  bestrides  him, 

And  the  pretty  daughter  rides  him, 

And  I  meet  him  oft  o'  mornings  on  the  Course; 

And  there  wakens  in  my  bosom 

An  emotion  chill  and  gruesome 

As  I  canter  past  the  Undertaker's  Horse. 

Neither  shies  he  nor  is  restive. 
But  a  hideously  suggestive 
Trot,  professional  and  placid,  he  affects;" 
And  the  cadence  of  his  hoof -beats 
To  my  mind,  this  grim  reproof  beats : 
"Mend  your  pace,  my  friend,  I'm  coming.     "Who's 
the  next?" 

Ah !  stud-bred  of  ill-omen, 

I  have  watched  the  strongest  go — men 

Of  pith  and  might  and  muscle — at  your  heels, 

Down  the  plantain-bordered  highway, 

(Heaven  send  it  ne'er  be  my  way!) 

In  a  lackered  box  and  jetty  upon  wheels. 

Answer,  somber  beast  and  dreary, 
Where  is  Brown,  the  young,  the  cheery, 
Smith,  the  pride  of  all  his  friends  and  half  the 

Force? 
You  were  at  that  last  dread  dak 
We  must  cover  at  a  walk, 
Bring  them  back  to  me,  O  Undertaker's  Horse ! 

With  your  mane  unhogged  and  flowing, 
And  your  curious  way  of  going, 


Otl?er  Verses  471 

And  that  business-like  black  crimping  of  jour  tail. 

E'en  with  Beauty  on  your  back,  sir, 

Pacing  as  a  lady's  hack,  sir, 

What  wonder  when  I  meet  you  I  turn  pale? 

It  may  be  you  wait  your  time,  Beast, 

Till  I  write  my  last  bad  rhyme.  Beast, 

Quit  the  sunlight,  cut  the  rhyming,  drop  th«  glass? 

Follow  after  with  the  others. 

Where  some  dusky  heathen  smothers 

Us  with  marigolds  in  lieu  of  English  grass. 

Or,  perchance,  in  years  to  follow, 

I  shall  watch  your  plump  sides  hollow, 

See  Carnifex  (gone  lame)  become  a  corse. 

See  old  age  at  last  o'erpower  you. 

And  the  Station  Pack  devour  you, 

I  shall  chuckle  then,  O  Undertaker's  Horse. 

But  to  insult,  gibe,  and  quest,  I've 
Still  the  hideously  suggestive 
Trot  that  hammers  out  the  grim  and  warning  te^. 
And  I  hear  it  hard  behind  me, 
In  what  place  soe'er  I  find  me  i 
"Sure  to  catch  you  sooner  or  later*     Who*e  Hie 
next?" 


THE   FALL   OF   JOCK    GILLESPIE 

This  fell  when  dinner-time  was  done— 
'Twixt  the  first  an'  the  second  rub — 

That  oor  mon  Jock  cam'  hame  again 
To  his  rooms  ahint  the  Club. 

An'  syne  he  laughed,  an'  syne  he  sang, 

An'  syne  we  thocht  him  fou. 
An'  syne  he  trumped  his  partner's  trick 

An'  garred  his  partner  rue. 


472  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  I^lpliQ^ 

Then  up  and  spake  an  elder  mon, 
That  held  the  Spade  its  Ace — 

*'God  save  the  lad !     Whence  comes  the  licht 
That  wimples  on  his  face?" 

An'  Jock  he  sniggered  an'  Jock  he  smiled, 
An'  ower  the  card-brim  wunk : 

*'I'm  a'  too  fresh  fra'  the  stirrup-peg, 
May  be  that  I  am  drunk." 

"There's  whusky  brewed  in  Galashiels, 

An'  L.  L.  L.  forbye; 
But  never  liquor  lit  the  low 

That  keeks  fra'  oot  your  eye. 

** There's  a  thrid  o'  hair  on  your  dress-coat 
breast, 

Aboon  the  heart  a  wee?" 
**0h!  that  is  fra'  the  lang-haired  Skye 

That  slobbers  ower  me. " 

*'0h!  lang-haired  Skyes  are  lovin'  beasts, 

An'  terrier  dogs  are  fair, 
But  never  yet  was  terrier  born 

Wi'  ell-lang  gowden  hair! 

*' There's  a  smirch  o'  pouther  on  your  breast,. 

Below  the  left  lappel?" 
*'0h!  that  is  fra'  my  auld  cigar, 

Whenas  the  stump-end  fell." 

*'Mon  Jock,  ye  smoke  the  Trichi  coarse. 

For  ye  are  short  o'  cash, 
An'  best  Havanas  couldna  leave 

Sae  white  an'  pure  an  ash. 

"This  nicht  ye  stopped  a  story  braid, 

An'  stopped  it  wi'  a  curse — 
Last  nicht  ye  told  that  tale  yoursel, 

An'  capped  it  wi'  a  worse ! 


Ott?er  l/erses  473 

^^Oh!  we're  no  fou!     Oh!  we're  no  fou! 

But  plainly  we  can  ken 
Ye're  fallin',  fallin'j  fra'  the  band 

O'  cantie  single  men!" 

An'  it  fell  when  sirris-ohaws,  were  sere. 
An'  the  nichts  were  lang  and  mirk, 

In  braw  new  breeks,  wi'  a  go w den  ring, 
Oor  Jockie  gaed  to  the  Kirk. 


ARITHMETIC    ON    THE   FRONTIER 

A  GREAT  and  glorious  thing  it  is 
To  learn,  for  seven  years  or  so, 

The  Lord  knows  what  of  that  and  this, 
Ere  reckoned  fit  to  face  the  foe — 

The  flying  bullet  down  the  Pass, 

That  whistles  clear:  "All  flesh  is  grass." 

Three  hundred  pounds  per  annum  spent 
On  making  brain  and  body  meeter 

For  all  the  murderous  intent 

Comprised  in  "villainous  saltpeter!" 

And  after — ask  the  Yusufzaies 

What  comes  of  all  our  'ologies. 

A  scrimmage  in  a  Border  Station — 
A  canter  down  some  dark  defile — 

Two  thousand  pounds  of  education 
Drops  to  a  ten-rupee  jezail — 

The  Crammer's  boast,  the  Squadron's  pride. 

Shot  like  a  rabbit  in  a  ride ! 

No  proposition  Euclid  wrote, 

No  formulae  the  text-books  know. 

Will  turn  the  bullet  from  your  coat, 
Or  ward  the  tulwar's  downward  blow. 

Strike  hard  who  cares — shoot  straight  who  can- 

The  odds  are  on  the  cheaper  man. 


474  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  l^iplii?^ 

One  sword-knot  stolen  from  the  camp 
Will  pay  for  all  the  school  expenses 

Of  any  Kurrum  Valley  scamp 

Who  knows  no  word  or  moods  and  tenses j 

But,  being  blessed  with  perfect  sight, 

Picks  off  our  messmates  left  and  right. 

With  home-bred  hordes  the  hillsides  teem, 
The  troopships  bring  us  one  by  one, 

At  vast  expense  of  time  and  steam, 
To  slay  Afridis  where  they  run. 

The  "captives  of  our  bow  and  spear" 

Are  cheap — alas!  as  we  are  dear. 


ONE    VICEROY    RESIGNS 

{Lord  Dufferin  to  Lord  Lansdowne) 

So  here's  your  Empire.     IsTo  more  wine,  then?     Good. 
We'll  clear  the  Aids  and  khitmatgars  away. 
(You'll  know  that  fat  old  fellow  with  the  knife — 
He  keeps  the  !N'ame  Book,  talks  in  English  too, 
And  almost  thinks  himself  the  Government. ) 

0  Youth,  Youth,  Youth !  Forgive  me,  you're  so  young. 
Forty  from  sixty — twenty  years  of  work 

And  power  to  back  the  working.     Ay  de  mi! 
You  want  to  know,  you  want  to  see,  to  touch, 
And,  by  your  lights,  to  act.     It's  natural. 

1  wonder  can  I  help  you.     Let  me  try. 

You  saw — what  did  you  see  from  Bombay  east? 

Enough  to  frighten  any  one  but  me? 

IN'eat  that!     It  frightened  Me  in  Eighty- Four! 

You  shouldn't  take  a  man  from  Canada 

And  bid  him  smoke  in  powder-magazines; 

"Not  with  a  Reputation  such  as — Bah ! 

That  ghost  has  haunted  me  for  twenty  yearg^ 


Otl^sr  Verses  475 

My  Reputation  now  full  blown — Your  fault— 

Yours,  with  your  stories  of  the  strife  at  Home, 

Who's  up,  who's  down,  who  leads  and  who  is  led — 

One  reads  so  much,  one  hears  so  httle  here. 

Well,  now's  your  turn  of  exile.     I  go  back 

To  Rome  and  leisure.     All  roads  lead  to  Rome, 

Or  books — the  refuge  of  the  destitute. 

When  you  .   .   .  that  brings  me  back  to  India.     See! 

Start  clear.     I  couldn't.     Egypt  served  my  turn. 
You'll  never  plumb  the  Oriental  mind, 
And  if  you  did  it  isn't  worth  the  toil. 
Think  of  a  sleek  French  priest  in  Canada; 
Divide  by  twenty  half-breeds.     Multiply 
By  twice  the  Sphinx's  silence.     There's  your  East, 
And  you're  as  wise  as  ever.     So  am  I. 

Accept  on  trust  and  work  in  darkness,  strike 
At  venture,  stumble  forward,  make  your  mark 
(It's  chalk  on  granite),  then  thank  God  no  flame 
Leaps  from  the  rock  to  shrivel  mark  and  man. 
I'm  clear — my  mark  is  made.   Three  months  of  drought 
Had  ruined  much.     It  rained  and  washed  away 
The  specks  that  might  have  gathered  on  my  Name. 
I  took  a  country  twice  the  size  of  France, 
And  shuttered  up  one  doorway  in  the  North. 
I  stand  by  those.     You'll  find  that  both  will  pay, 
I  pledged  my  ISTame  on  both — they're  yours  to-night. 
Hold  to  them — they  hold  fame  enough  for  two. 
I'm  old,  but  I  shall  live  till  Burma  pays 
Men  there — not  German  traders — Cr~sthw-te  knows— 
You'll  find  it  in  my  papers      For  the  North 
Guns  always — quietly — but  always  guns. 
You've  seen  your  Council?     Yes,  they'll  try  to  rule, 
And  prize  their  Reputations.     Have  you  met 
A  grim  lay-reader  with  a  taste  for  coins. 
And  faith  in  Sin  most  men  withhold  from  God? 
He's  gone  to  England.     R-p-n  knew  his  grip 
And  kicked.     A  Council  always  has  its  H-pes. 


476  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  Kiplir>^ 

They  look  for  notMng  from  ttie  West  but  Death 
Or  Bath  or  Bournemouth.     Here's  their  ground. 

They  fight 
Until  the  middle  classes  take  them  back, 
One  of  ten  millions  plus  a  C.  S.  I. 
Or  drop  in  harness.     Legion  of  the  Lost? 
Not  altogether — earnest,  narrow  men, 
But  chiefly  earnest,  and  they'll  do  your  work. 
And  end  by  writing  letters  to  the  "Times." 
(Shall  I  write  letters,  answering  H-nt-r — fawn 
With  R-p-n  on  the  Yorkshire  grocers?     Ugh !) 
They  have  their  Reputations.     Look  to  one — 
I  work  with  him — the  smallest  of  them  all, 
White-haired,  red-faced,  who  sat  the  plunging  horse 
Out  in  the  garden.     He's  your  right-hand  man, 
And  dreams  of  tilting  W-ls-y  from  the  throne, 
But  while  he  dreams  gives  work  we  cannot  buyj 
He  has  his  Reputation — wants  the  Lotds 
By  way  of  Frontier  Roads.     Meantime,  I  think, 
He  values  very  much  the  hand  that  falls 
Upon  his  shoulder  at  the  Council  table — 
Hates  cats  and  knows  his  business :  which  is  yours. 

Your  business !     Twice  a  hundred  million  souls. 
Your  business !     I  could  tell  you  what  I  did 
Some  nights  of  Eighty-Five,  at  Simla,  worth 
A  Kingdom's  ransom.     When  a  big  ship  drives, 
God  knows  to  what  new  reef,  the  man  at  the  wheel- 
Prays  with  the  passengers.     They  lose  their  lives, 
Or  rescued  go  their  way;  but  he's  no  man 
To  take  his  trick  at  the  wheel  again — that's  worse 
Than  drowning.     Well,  a  galled  Mashobra  mule 
(You'll  see  Mashobra)  passed  me  on  the  Mall, 
And  I  was — some  fool's  wife  had  ducked  and  bowed 
To  show  the  others  I  would  stop  and  speak. 
Then  the  mule  fell — three  galls,  a  hand-breadth  each, 
Behind  the  withers.     Mrs.  Whatsisname 
Leers  at  the  mule  and  me  by  turns,  thweet  thoull 


OtI?er  Verses  477 

**How  could  they  make  him  carry  such  a  load!'* 

I  saw — it  isn't  often  I  dream  dreams — 

More  than  the  mule  that  minute — smoke  and  flame 

From  Simla  to  the  haze  below.     That's  weak. 

You're  younger.     You'll  dream  dreams  before  you've 

done. 
You've  youth,  that's  one — good  workmen — that  means 

two 
Fair  chances  in  your  favor.     Fate's  the  third. 
I  know  what  J  did.     Do  you  ask  me,  "Preach"? 
I  answer  by  my  past  or  else  go  back 
To  platitudes  of  rule — or  take  you  thus 
In  confidence  and  say:  *' You  know  the  trick: 
You've  governed  Canada.     You  know.     You  know  I" 
And  all  the  while  commend  you  to  Fate's  hand 
(Here  at  the  top  one  loses  sight  o'  God), 
Commend  you,  then,  to  something  more  than  you — 
The  Other  People's  blunders  and  ,  .  .  that's  all. 
I'd  agonize  to  serve  you  if  I  could. ' 
It's  incommunicable,  like  the  cast 
That  drops  the  tackle  with  the  gut  adry. 
Too  much — too  little — there's  your  salmon  lost! 
And  so  I  tell  you  nothing — wish  you  luck, 
And  wonder — how  I  wonder ! — for  your  sake 
And    triumph    for    my  own.     You're   young,   yots're 

young, 
You  hold  to  half  a  hundred  Shibboleths. 
I'm  old.     I  followed  Power  to  the  last, 
Gave  her  my  best,  and  Power  followed  Me. 
It's  worth  it — on  my  soul  I'm  speaking  plain, 
Here  by  the  claret  glasses! — worth  it  all. 
I  gave — no  matter  what  I  gave — I  win. 
I  know  I  win.     Mine's  work,  good  work  that  live! 
A  country  twice  the  size  of  France — the  North 
Safeguarded.     That's  my  record :  sink  the  rest 
And  better  if  you  can.     The  Rains  may  serve, 
Rupees  may  rise — threepence  will  give  you  Fame— 


i?8  U/orl^8  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

It's  rasli  to  hope  for  sixpence —If  they  rise 
Get  guns,  more  guns,  and  hft  the  salt-tax. 

Oh? 
I  told  you  what  the  Congress  meant  or  thought? 
I'll  answer  nothing.     Half  a  year  will  prove 
The  full  extent  of  time  and  thought  you'll  spar© 
To  Congress.     Ask  a  Lady  Doctor  once 
How  little  Begums  see  the  light— deduce 
Thence  how  the  True  Reformer's  child  is  borzL 
It's  interesting,  curious  .  «  .  and  vile. 
I  told  the  Turk  he  was  a  gentleman. 
I  told  the  Russian  that  his  Tartar  veins 
Bled  pure  Parisian  ichor;  and  he  purred. 
The  Congress  doesn't  purr.     I  think  it  swears^ 
You're  young— you'll  swear  too  ere  you've  reached  the 

end. 
The  End!     God  help  you,  if  there  be  a  God. 
(There  must  be  one  to  startle  Gl-dst-ne's  soul 
In  that  new  land  where  all  the  wires  are  cut, 
And  Cr-ss  snores  anthems  on  the  asphodel.) 
God  help  you!    And  I'd  help  you  if  I  could. 
But  that's  beyond  me.     Yes,  your  speech  was  crude, 
Sound  claret  after  olives— yours  and  mine; 
But  Medoc  slips  into  vin  ordinaire. 
(I'll  drink  my  first  at  Genoa  to  your  health.) 
Raise  it  to  Hock.     You'll  never  catch  my  style. 
And,  after  all,  the  middle-classes  grip 
The  middle-class — for  Brompton  talk  Earl's  Court. 
Perhaps  you're  right.     I'll  see  you  in  the  ** Times'*— 
A  quarter-column  of  eye-searing  print, 
A  leader  once  a  quarter — then  a  war; 
The  Strand  abellow  through  the  fog:  **Defeat!** 
**  'Orrible  slaughter  I"    While  you  lie  awake 
And  wonder.     Oh,  you'll  wonder  ere  you're  free! 
I  wonder  now.     The  four  years  slide  away 
So  fast,  so  fast,  and  leave  me  here  alone. 
R — ^y,  C-lv-n,  L — 1,  R-b-rts,  B-ck,  the  rest. 


Otl^er  l/erses  479 

Princes  and  Powers  of  Darkness,  troops  and  trains 

(I  cannot  sleep  in  trains),  land  piled  on  land. 

Whitewash  and  weariness,  red  rockets,  dust, 

White  snows  that  mocked  me,  palaces — with  draughts, 

And  W-stl-nd  with  the  drafts  he  couldn't  pay, 

Poor  W-ls-n  reading  his  obituary 

Before  he  died,  and  H-pe,  the  man  with  bones. 

And  A-tch-s-n  a  dripping  mackintosh 

At  Council  in  the  Rains,  his  grating  "Sirrr" 

Half  drowned  by  H-nt-r's  silky:  "Bat  my  lahd.*' 

Hunterian  always :  M-rsh-I  spinning  plates 

Or  standing  on  his  head ;  the  Rent  Bill's  roar, 

A  hundred  thousand  speeches,  much  red  cloth. 

And  Smiths  thrice  happy  if  I  call  them  Jones 

(I  can't  remember  half  their  names),  or  reined 

My  pony  on  the  Mall  to  greet  their  wives. 

More  trains,  more  troops,  more  dust,  and  then  all's  dooa. 

Four  years,  and  I  forget.     If  I  forget 

How  will  they  bear  me  in  their  minds?    The  ITorth 

Safeguarded — nearly  (R-b-rts  knows  the  rest), 

A  country  twice  the  size  of  France  annexed. 

That  stays  at  least.     The  rest  may  pass — may  pass— 

Your  heritage — and  I  can  teach  you  naught. 

**High  trust,"  *Vast  honor,"  "interests  twice  as  vast,*' 

"Do  reverence  to  your  Council" — keep  to  those. 

I  envy  you  the  twenty  years  you've  gained. 

But  not  the  five  to  follow.     What's  that?    One? 

Two! — Surely  not  so  late.    Good-night.     DonH  dream. 


THE    BETROTHED 

**You  must  choose  between  me  and  your  cigar'* 
Open  the  old  cigar-box,  get  me  a  Cuba  stout. 
For  things  are  running  crossways,  and  Maggie  and  I  are  out. 

We  quarreled  about  Havanas — we  fought  o'er  a  good  cheroot, 
And  I  know  she  is  exacting,  and  she  says  I  am  a  brute. 


480  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  t^iplii)^ 

Open  the  old  cigar- box— let  me  consider  a  space; 

In  the  soft  blue  veil  of  the  vapor,  musing  on  Maggie's  face. 

Maggie  is  pretty  to  look  at — Maggie's  a  loving  lass, 
But  ^9  prettiest  cheeks  must  wrinkle,  the  truest  of  loves 
must  pass. 

There's  peace  in  a  Laranaga,  there's  calm  in  a  Henry  Clay, 
But  tii8  best  cigar  in  an  hour  is  finished  and  thrown  away — 

Thrown  away  for  another  as  perfect  and  ripe  and  brown- 
But  I  could  not  throw  away  Maggie  for  fear  o'  the  talk  o* 
tli©  town ! 

Mag^e,  mj  wife  at  ^f ty— gray  and  dour  and  old—- 
With  never  another  Maggie  to  purchase  for  love  or  gold  I 

And  the  light  of  Days  that  have  Been  the  dark  of  the  Days 

&at  Are, 
And  Love's  torch  stinking  and  stale,  like  the  butt  of  a  dead 


Th@  butt  of  a  dead  cigar  you  are  bound  to  keep  in  your 


With  never  a  now  one  to  light  tho'  it's  charred  asd  black  to 
the  socket. 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — ^let  me  consider  a  while- 
Here  is  a  mild  Manilla— there  is  a  wifely  smile. 

Which  18  the  better  portion — bondage  bought  with  &  ftng^ 
Or  a  harem  of  dusky  beauties  fifty  tied  in  a  string? 

Counselors  cunning  and  silent — comforters  true  and  tried. 
And  never  a  one  of  the  fifty  to  sneer  at  a  rival  bride. 

Thought  in  the  early  morning,  solace  in  time  of  woes, 
F^ice  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight,  balm  ere  my  eyelids  close. 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me,  asking  naught  in  return, 
With  only  a  Suttee* s  passion — ^to  do  their  duty  and  bum. 


Otl^er  Uerses  481 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me.    When  they  are  spent  and  dead, 
Five  times  other  fifties  shall  be  my  servants  instead. 

The  furrows  of  far-off  Java,  the  isles  of  the  Spanish  Main, 
When  they  hear  my  harem  is  empty,  will  send  me  my  brides 
again. 

,  I  will  take  no  heed  to  their  raiment,  nor  food  for  their  mouths 
r         withal, 
So  long  as  the  gulls  are  nesting,  so  long  as  the  showers  fall. 

^  I  will  scent  'em  with  best  vanilla,  with  tea  will  I  temper 
their  hides, 
And  the  Moor  and  the  Mormon  shall  envy  who  read  of  the 
tale  of  my  brides. 

For  Maggie  has  written  a  letter  to  give  me  my  choice  between 
The  wee  Httle  whimpering  Love  and  the  great  god  Kick  o' 
Teen. 

And  I  have  been  servant  of  Love  for  barely  a  twelvemonth 

clear, 
But  I  have  been  Priest  of  Partagas  a  matter  of  seven  year; 

And  the  gloom  of  my  bachelor  days  is  flecked  with  the  cheery 

Hght 
Of  stumps  that  I  burned  to  Friendship  and  Pleasure  and  Work 

and  Fight. 

And  I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  future  that  Maggie  and  I  must 

prove, 
But  the  only  light  on  the  marshes  is  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp  of 

Love. 

Will  it  see  me  safe  through  my  journey,  or  leave  me  bogged 

in  the  mire? 
Since  a  puff  of  tobacco  can  cloud  it,  shall  I  follow  the  fitful 

fire? 

Open  the  old  cigar-box — let  me  consider  anew — 

Old  friends,  and  who  is  Maggie  that  I  should  abandon  youf 

Vol.  3.  21 


482  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  I^iplip^ 

A  million  surplus  Maggies  are  willing  to  bear  the  yoke ; 
And  a  woman  is  only  a  woman,  but  a  good  cigar  is  a  Smoke. 

Light  me  another  Cuba ;  I  hold  to  my  first-sworn  vows, 

If  Maggie  will  have  no  rival,  I'll  have  no  Maggie  for  spouse! 


A   TALE   OF    TWO    CITIES 

Where  the  sober  colored  cultivator  smiles 

On  his  hylesj 
Where  the  cholera,  the  cyclone,  and  the  crow 

Come  and  go; 
Where  the  merchant  deals  in  indigo  and  tea, 

Hides  and  ghi; 
Where  the  Babu  drops  inflammatory  hints 

In  his  prints; 
Stands  a  City— Charnock  chose  it — packed  away 

!N"ear  a  Bay — 
By  the  sewage  rendered  fetid,  by  the  sewer 

Made  impure, 
By  the  Sunderbunds  unwholesome,  by  the  swamp 

Moist  and  damp; 
And  the  City  and  the  Viceroy,  as  we  see. 

Don't  agree. 
Once,  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  trader  came 

Meek  and  tame. 
Where  his  timid  foot  first  halted,  there  he  stayed^ 

Till  mere  trade 
Grew  to  Empire,  and  he  sent  his  armies  forth 

South  and  N"orth 
Till  the  country  from  Peshawar  to  Ceylon 

Was  his  own. 
Thus  the  midday  halt  of  Charnock — more's  the  pity! 

Grew  a  City. 
As  the  fungus  sprouts  chaotic  from  its  bed, 

So  it  spread — 


Obiter  Uerses  483 

Chance  directed,  chance-erected,  laid  and  built 

On  the  silt- 
Palace,  byre,  hovel — poverty  and  pride — 

Side  by  side; 
And,  above  the  packed  and  pestilential  town. 

Death  looked  down. 
But  the  rulers  in  that  City  by  the  Sea 

Turned  to  flee — 
Fled,  with  each  returning  spring-tide,  from  its  His 

To  the  Hills. 
From  the  clammy  fogs  of  morning,  from  the  blaae 

Of  the  days, 
From  the  sickness  of  the  noontide,  from  the  heat. 

Beat  retreat; 
For  the  country  from  Peshawar  to  Ceylon 

Was  their  own. 
But  the  Merchant  risked  the  perils  of  the  Plain 

For  his  gain. 


Now  the  resting-place  of  Charnock,  'neath  the 

Asks  an  alms. 
And  the  burden  of  its  lamentation  is, 

Briefly,  this: 
**  Because,  for  certain  months,  we  boil  and  stew§ 

So  should  you. 
Cast  the  Viceroy  and  his  Council,  to  perspii^ 

In  our  fire!" 
And  for  answer  to  the  argument,  in  vain 

We  explain 
That  an  amateur  Saint  Lawrence  cannot  try^ 

*'^ZZ  must  fry!" 
That  the  Merchant  risks  the  perils  of  the  Plain 

For  his  gain. 
Nor  can  Rulers  rule  a  house  that  men  grow  rich  m^ 

From  its  kitchen. 
Let  the  Babu  drop  inflammatory  hints 

In  his  prints; 


484  U/or^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

And  mature — consistent  soul — his  plan  for  stealing 

To  Darjeeling; 
Let  the  Merchant  seek,  who  makes  his  silver  pile, 

England's  isle; 
Let  the  City  Charnock  pitched  on — evil  dayl-— 

Go  Her  way. 
Though  the  argosies  of  Asia  at  Her  doors 

Heap  their  stores, 
Though  Her  enterprise  and  energy  secure. 

Income  sure, 
Though  ''out  station  orders  punctually  obeyed" 

Swell  Her  trade — 
Still,  for  rule,  administration,  and  the  rest, 

Simla's  best. 


GRIFFEN'S    DEBT 

Impeimis  he  was  ''broke."  .  Thereafter  left 
His  regiment,  and,  later,  took  to  drink ; 
Then,  having  lost  the  balance  of  his  friends, 
^^Went  Fan  tee"— joined  the  people  of  the  land, 
Turned  three  parts  Mussulman  and  one  Hindu, 
And  lived  among  the  Gauri  villagers, 
Who  gave  him  shelter  and  a  wife  or  twain. 
And  boasted  that  a  thorough,  full-blood  sahib 
Had  come  among  them.     Thus  he  spent  his  time^ 
Deeply  indebted  to  the  village  shroff 
(Who  never  asked  for  payment),  always  drunk, 
Unclean,  abominable,  out-at-heels ; 
Forgetting  that  he  was  an  Englishman. 

You  know  they  dammed  the  Gauri  with  a  danij 
And  all  the  good  contractors  scamped  their  workj 
And  all  the  bad  material  at  hand 
Was  used  to  dam  the  Gauri — which  was  cheap, 
And,  therefore,  proper.     Then  the  Gauri  burst. 


Otl^er  Uerses  485 

And  several  hundred  thousand  cubic  tons 

Of  water  dropped  into  the  valley,  flop^ 

And  drowned  some  five-and-twenty  villagers, 

And  did  a  lakh  or  two  of  detriment 

To  crops  and  cattle.     When  the  flood  went  down 

"We  found  him  dead,  beneath  an  old  dead  horse. 

Full  six  miles  down  the  valley.     So  we  said 

He  was  a  victim  to  the  Demon  Drink, 

And  moralized  upon  him  for  a  week, 

And  then  forgot  him.     Which  was  natural. 

But,  in  the  valley  of  the  Gauri,  men 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  big  new  dam 

Relate  a  foolish  legend  of  the  flood, 

Accounting  for  the  httle  loss  of  life 

(Only  those  five-and  twenty  villagers) 

In  this  wise ;  On  the  evening  of  the  flood, 

They  heard  the  groaning  of  the  rotten  dam. 

And  voices  of  the  Mountain  Devils.     Then 

An  incarnation  of  the  local  God, 

Mounted  upon  a  monster-neighing  horse, 

And  flourishing  a  flail-like  whip,  came  down, 

Breathing  ambrosia,  to  the  villages, 

And  fell  upon  the  simple  villagers 

With  yells  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  throat. 

And  blows  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  hand. 

And  smote  them  with  the  flail-like  whip,  and  dfOTS 

Them  clamorous  with  terror  up  the  hill. 

And  scattered,  with  the  monster-neighing  steed^ 

Their  crazy  cottages  about  their  ears. 

And  generally  cleared  those  villages. 

Then  came  the  water,  and  the  local  God, 

Breathing  ambrosia,  flourishing  his  whip, 

And  mounted  on  his  monster-neighing  steed. 

Went  down  the  valley  with  the  flying  trees 

And  residue  of  homesteads,  while  they  watched 

Safe  on  the  mountain-side  these  wondrous  things. 

And  knew  that  they  were  much  beloved  of  HeaveiL 


486  U/ork^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplir>(j 

Wherefore,  and  when  the  dam  was  newly  built, 

They  raised  a  temple  to  the  local  God, 

And  burned  all  manner  of  unsavory  things 

Upon  his  altar,  and  created  priests. 

And  blew  into  a  conch,  and  banged  a  bell, 

And  told  the  story  of  the  Gauri  flood 

With  circumstance  and  much  embroidery. 

So  he  the  whiskified  Objectionable, 

Unclean,  abominable,  out-at-heels. 

Became  the  tutelary  Deity 

Of  all  the  Gauri  valley  villages ; 

And  may  in  time  become  a  Solar  Myth. 


IN    SPRINGTIME 

My  garden    blazes    brightly  with    the   rose-bush  and  the 
peach. 
And  the  koil  sings  above  it,  in  the  siris  by  the  well, 
From  the  creeper- covered  trellis  comes  the  squirrel's  chatter- 
ing speech. 
And  the  blue- jay  screams  and  flutters  where  the  cheery 
sat-bhai  dwell. 

But  the  rose  has  lost  its  fragrance,  and  the  koiVs  note  is 
strange ; 
I  am  sick  of  endless  sunshine,  sick  of  blossom-burdened 
bough. 
Give  me  back  the  leafless  woodlands  where  the  winds  of 
Springtime  range — 
Give  me  back  one  day  in  England,  for  it's  Spring  in  Eng« 
land  now! 

Through  the  pines  the  gusts  are  booming,  o'er  the  brown 
fields  blowing  chill, 
From  the  furrow  of  the  plowshare  streams  the  fragrance 
of  the  loam. 


Otl?er  I/erses  487 

And  the  hawk  nests  on  the  cliff -side  and  the  jackdaw  in  the 
hill, 
And  my  heart  is  back  in  England  mid  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  Home. 

But   the  garland   of  the   sacrifice  this  wealth  of  rose  and 
peach  is; 
Ah !  A;o^7,  Httle  koil,  singing  on  the  siris  bough. 
In  my  ears  the  knell  of  exile  your  ceaseless  bell-like  speech  is— 
Can  you  tell  me  aught  of  England  or  of  Spring  in  England 
now? 


TWO    MONTHS 


IN    JUNE 

N"o  hope,  no  change!     The  clouds  have  shut  us  in, 
And  through  the  cloud  the  sullen  Sun  strikes  down 
Full  on  the  bosom  of  the  tortured  Town. 

Till  Night  falls  heavy  as  remembered  sin 

That  will  not  suffer  sleep  or  thought  of  ease. 
And,  hour  on  hour,  the  dry-eyed  Moon  in  spite 
Glares  through  the  haze  and  mocks  with  watery  light 

The  torment  of  the  uncomplaining  trees. 

Far  off,  the  Thunder  bellows  her  despair 

To  echoing  Earth,  thrice  parched.     The  lightnings  fly 

In  vain.     No  help  the  heaped-up  clouds  afford, 

But  wearier  weight  of  burdened,  burning  air. 

What  truce  with  Dawn?     Look,  from  the  aching  sky, 

Day  stalks,  a  tyrant  with  a  flaming  sword! 


488  U/orl^8  of  F^udyard  l{ipUT)^ 


IN    SEPTEMBER 

At  dawn  there  was  a  murmur  in  the  trees, 

A  ripple  on  the  tank,  and  in  the  air 

Presage  of  coming  coolness — everywhere 
A  voice  of  prophecy  upon  the  breeze. 
Up  leaped  the  sun  and  smote  the  dust  to  gold, 

And  strove  to  parch  anew  the  heedless  land, 
AU  impotently,  as  a  King  grown  old 

Wars  for  the  Empire  crumbling  'neath  his  hand. 

One  after  one,  the  lotos-petals  fell, 

Beneath  the  onslaught  of  the  rebel  year 

In  mutiny  against  a  furious  sky ; 

And  far-off  Winter  whispered:  *^It  is  well! 

Hot  Summer  dies.     Behold,  your  help  is  near, 

For  when  men's  need  is  sorest,  then  come  I." 


THE    GALLEY-SLAVE 

Oh,  gallant  was  our  galley  from  her  carven  steering-wheel 
To  her  figurehead  of  silver  and  her  beak  of  hammered 

steel ; 
The  leg-bar  chafed  the  ankle,  and  we  gasped  for  cooler  air. 
But  no  galley  on  the  water  with  our  galley  could  compare! 

Our  bulkheads  bulged  with  cotton  and  our  masts  were  stepped 

in  gold— 
We  ran  a  mighty  merchandise  of  niggers  in  the  hold ; 
The  white  foam  spun  behind  us,  and  the  black  shark  swam 

below, 
As  we  gripped  the  kicking  sweep-head  and  we  made  that 

galley  go. 


Otl?er  Verses  489 

It  was  merry  in  tlie  galley,  for  we  reveled  now  and  tlien — 
If  they  wore  us  down  like  cattle,  faith,  we  fought  and  loved 

like  men ! 
As  we  snatched  her  through  the  water,  so  we  snatched  a 

minute's  bliss, 
And  the  mutter  of  the  dying  never  spoiled  the  lovers'  kiss. 

Our  women  and  our  children  toiled  beside  us  in  the  dark — 
They  died,  we  filed  their  fetters,  and  we  heaved  them  to  the 

shark — 
We  heaved  them  to  the  fishes,  but  so  fast  the  galley  sped, 
We   had   only  time  to  envy,  for  we  could  not  mourn   our 

dead. 

Bear  witness,  once,  my  comrades,  what  a  hard-bit  gang  were 

we — 
The  servants  of  the  sweep-head,  but  the  masters  of  the  sea ! 
By  the  hands  that  drove  her  forward  as  she  plunged  and 

yawed  and  sheered. 
Woman,   Man,   or  God,  or  Devil,  was  there  anything  we 

feared? 

Was  it  storm?  Our  fathers  faced  it,  and  a  wilder  never 
blew ; 

Earth  that  waited  for  the  wreckage  watched  the  galley  strug- 
gle through. 

Burning  noon  or  choking  midnight.  Sickness,  Sorrow,  Part- 
ing, Death? 

Nay,  our  very  babes  would  mock  you,  had  they  time  for  idle 
breath. 

But  to-day  I  leave  the  galley,  and  another  takes  my  place ; 
There's  my  name  upon  the  deck-beam^ — let  it  stand  a  little 

space. 
I  am  free— to  watch  my  messmates  beating  out  to  open 

main, 
Free  of  all  that  Life  can  offer—  save  to  handle  sweep  again- 


490  U/orl^s  of  F^udyard  l^iplip^ 

By  the  brand  upon  my  shoulder,  by  the  gall  of  clinging 

steel, 
By  the  welt  the  whips  have  left  me,  by  the  scars  that  never 

heal; 
By  eyes  grown  old  with  staring  through  the  sun-wash  on  the 

brine, 
I  am  paid  in  full  for  service — would  that  service  still  were 

mine! 

Yet  they  talk  of  times  and  seasons  and  of  woe  the  years  bring 

forth, 
Of  our  galley  swamped  and  shattered  in  the  rollers  of  the 

North. 
When  the  niggers  break  the  hatches,  and  the  decks  are  gay 

with  gore, 
And   a  craven-hearted    pilot   crams   her   crashing  on   the 

shore. 

She  will  need  no  half-mast  signal,  minute-gun,  or  rocket- 
flare, 

When  the  cry  for  help  goes  seaward,  she  will  find  her  ser- 
vants there. 

Battered  chain-gangs  of  the  orlop,  grizzled  drafts  of  years 
gone  by. 

To  the  bench  that  broke  their  manhood,  they  shall  lash  them- 
selves and  die. 

Hale  and  crippled,  young  and  aged,  paid,  deserted,  shipped 

away— 
Palace,  cot,  and  lazaretto  shall  make  up  the  tale  that  day, 
When  the  skies  are  black  above  them,  and  the  decks  ablaze 

beneath, 
And  the  top-men  clear  the  raffle  with  their  clasp-knives  in 

their  teeth. 

It  may  be  that  Fate  will  give  me  life  and  leave  to  row  once 

more — 
Set  some  strong  man  free  for  fighting  as  I  take  a  while 

his  oar. 


Otl^er  Uerses  491 

But  to-day  I  leave  the  galley.     Shall  I  curse  her  service 

then? 
God  be  thanked — whate'er  conies  after,  I  have  lived  and 

toiled  with  Men ! 


UENVOI 

(To  whom  it  may  concern) 

The  smoke  upon  your  Altar  dies. 

The  flowers  decay, 
The  Goddess  of  your  sacrifice 

Has  flown  away. 
What  profit  then  to  sing  or  slay 
The  sacrifice  from  day  to  day? 

* '  We  know  the  Shrine  is  void, ' '  they  sale 

"The  Goddess  flown — ■ 
Yet  wreaths  are  on  the  Altar  laid-— 

The  Altar- Stone 
Is  black  with  fumes  of  sacrifice, 
Albeit  She  has  fled  our  eyes. 

**For,  it  may  be,  if  still  we  sing 

And  tend  the  Shrine, 
Some  Deity  on  wandering  wing 

May  there  incline; 
And,  finding  all  in  order  meet, 
Stay  while  we  worship  at  Her  feet.*^ 


492  U/orKs  of  I^udyard  H^iplip^ 


THE   CONUNDRUM   OF  THE  WORK- 
SHOPS 

When  the  flush  of  a  new-born  sun  fell  first  on  Eden's  green 

and  gold, 
Our  father  Adam  sat  under  the  Tree  and  scratched  with  a 

stick  in  the  mould ; 
And  the  first  rude  sketch  that  the  world  had  seen  was  joy  to 

his  mighty  heart, 
Till  the  Devil  whispered  behind  the  leaves:  ''It's  pretty,  but 

is  it  art?" 

Wherefore  he  called  to  his  wife,  and  tied  to  fashion  his  work 

anew — 
The  first  of  his  race  who  cared  a  fig  for  the  first,  most  dread 

review ; 
And  he  left  his  lore  to  the  use  of  his  sons — and  that  was  a 

glorious  gain 
When  the  Devil  chuckled:   **Is  it  art?"    in  the  ear  of  the 

branded  Cain. 

They  builded  a  tower  to  shiver  the  sky  and  wrench  the  stars 
apart, 

Till  the  Devil  grunted  behind  the  bricks:  '*It's  striking,  but 
is  it  art?" 

The  stone  was  dropped  by  the  quarry-side,  and  the  idle  der- 
rick swung, 

While  each  man  talked  of  the  aims  of  art,  and  each  in  an 
alien  tongue. 

They  fought  and  they  talked  in  the  north  and  the  south,  they 

talked  and  they  fought  in  the  west. 
Till  the  waters  rose  on  the  jabbering  land,  and  the  poor  Red 

Clay  had  rest— 


Obiter  Uerses  493 

Had  rest  till  the  dank  blank-canvas  dawn  when  the  dove  was 

preened  to  start, 
And  the  Devil  bubbled  below  the  keel:  "It's  human,  but  is 

it  art?" 

The  tale  is  old  as  the  Eden  Tree— as  new  as  the  new-cut 

tooth — 
For  each  man  knows  ere  his  lip-thatch  grows  he  is  master  of 

art  and  truth; 
And  each  man  hears  as  the  twilight  nears,  to  the  beat  of  Mb 

dying  heart, 
The  Devil  drum  on  the  darkened  pane:  *' You  did  it,  but  was 

it  art?" 

We  have  learned  to  whittle  the  Eden  Tree  to  the  shape  of  a 

surplice-peg, 
We  have  learned  to  bottle  our  parents  twain  in  the  yolk  of  an 

addled  egg^ 
We  know  that  the  tail  must  wag  the  dog,  as  the  horse  is 

drawn  by  the  cart; 
But  the  Devil  whoops,  as  he  whooped  of  old;  "It's  clever, 

but  is  it  art?" 

When  the  flicker  of  London  sun  falls  faint  on  the  club-room's 

green  and  gold, 
The  sons  of  Adam  sit  them  down  and  scratch  with  their  pens 

in  the  mould — 
They  scratch  with  their  pens  in  the  mould  of  their  graves^  and 

the  ink  and  the  anguish  start 
When  the  Devil  mutters  behind  the  leaves:  "It's  pretty,  but 

is  it  art?" 

ITow,  if  we  could  win  to  the  Eden  Tree  where  the  four  great 

rivers  flow, 
And  the  wreath  of  Eve  is  red  on  the  turf  as  she  left  it  long 

ago, 


494  U/orl^s  of  I^udyard  l^iplii)^ 

And  if  we  could  come  when  the  sentry  slept,  and  softly  scurry 

through, 
By  the  favor  of  God  we  might  know  as  much — as  our  father 

Adam  knew. 


THE   EXPLANATION 

Love  and  Death  once  ceased  their  strife 

At  the  Tavern  of  Man's  Life. 

Called  for  wine,  and  threw — alas ! — 

Each  his  quiver  on  the  grass. 

"When  the  bout  was  o'er  they  found 

Mingled  arrows  strewed  the  ground. 

Hastily  they  gathered  then 

Each  the  loves  and  lives  of  men. 

Ah,  the  fateful  dawn  deceived! 

Mingled  arrows  each  one  sheaved: 

Death's  dread  armory  was  stored 

With  the  shafts  he  most  abhorred: 

Love's  light  quiver  groaned  beneath 

Venom-headed  darts  of  Death. 

Thus  it  was  they  wrought  our  woe 

At  the  Tavern  long  ago. 

Tell  me,  do  our  masters  know, 

Loosing  blindly  as  they  fly. 

Old  men  love  while  young  men  die? 


THE   GIFT   OF    THE   SEA 

The  dead  child  lay  in  the  shroud. 
And  the  widow  watched  beside ; 

And  her  mother  slept,  and  the  Channel  swept 
The  gale  in  the  teeth  of  the  tide. 


Otl^er  Verses  495 

But  the  widow  laughed  at  all. 

*'I  have  lost  my  man  in  the  sea, 
And  the  child  is  dead.     Be  still,'*  she  said, 

*'What  more  can  ye  do  to  me?" 

And  the  widow  watched  the  dead, 

And  the  candle  guttered  low, 
And  she  tried  to  sing  the  Passing  Song 

That  bids  the  poor  soul  go. 

And  "Mary  take  you  now,"  she  sang, 

*'That  lay  against  my  heart." 
And  "Mary  smooth  your  crib  to-night," 

But  she  could  not  say  "Depart." 

Then  came  a  cry  from  the  sea, 

But  the  sea-rime  blinded  the  glass. 
And  "Heard  ye  nothing,  mother?"  she  said; 

"  'Tis  the  child  that  waits  to  pass." 

And  the  nodding  mother  sighed. 

*'  'Tis  a  lambing  ewe  in  the  whin, 
For  why  should  the  christened  soul  cry  out. 

That  never  knew  of  sin?" 

**0h,  feet  I  have  held  in  my  hand, 

Oh,  hands  at  my  heart  to  catch. 
How  should  they  know  the  road  to  go, 

And  how  should  they  hft  the  latch?'* 

They  laid  a  sheet  to  the  door. 

With  the  little  quilt  atop. 
That  it  might  not  hurt  from  the  cold  or  the  dirt, 

But  the  crying  would  not  stop. 

The  widow  lifted  the  latch 

And  strained  her  eyes  to  see. 
And  opened  the  door  on  the  bitter  shore 

To  let  the  soul  go  free. 


496  U/orKs  of  F^udyard  \{ipUr}<^ 

There  was  neither  ghmmer  nor  ghost, 
There  was  neither  spirit  nor  spark. 

And  "Heard  ye  nothing,  mother?"  she  said, 
*'  'Tis  crying  for  me  in  the  dark." 

And  the  nodding  mother  sighed. 

"  'Tis  sorrow  makes  ye  dull; 
Have  ye  yet  to  learn  the  cry  of  the  tern, 

Or  the  wail  of  the  wind-blown  gull?" 

"The  terns  are  blown  inland, 
The  gray  gull  follows  the  plow. 

'Twas  never  a  bird,  the  voice  I  heard, 
O  mother,  I  hear  it  now!" 

"Lie  still,  dear  lamb,  lie  still; 

The  child  is  passed  from  harm, 
'Tis  the  ache  in  your  breast  that  broke  your  rest. 

And  the  feel  of  an  empty  arm." 

She  puts  her  mother  aside, 

**In  Mary's  name  let  be! 
For  the  peace  of  my  soul  I  must  go,"  she  said, 

And  she  went  to  the  calling  sea. 

In  the  heel  of  the  wind-bit  pier, 
Where  the  twisted  weed  was  piled, 

She  came  to  the  life  she  had  missed  by  an  hour. 
For  she  came  to  a  little  child. 

She  laid  it  into  her  breast. 

And  back  to  her  mother  she  came, 

But  it  would  not  feed,  and  it  would  not  heed, 
Though  she  gave  it  her  own  child's  name. 

And  the  dead  child  dripped  on  her  breast. 
And  her  own  in  the  shroud  lay  stark; 

And,  "God  forgive  us,  mother,"  she  said, 
"We  let  it  die  in  the  dark !" 


Otl^er  Uerses  497 


EVARRA   AND   HIS   GODS 

Read  here, 

This  is  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  the  city  gave  him  of  her  gold, 
Because  the  caravans  brought  turquoises, 
Because  his  Hfe  was  sheltered  by  the  King, 
So  that  no  man  should  maim  him,  none  should  steal. 
Or  break  his  rest  with  babble  in  the  streets 
When  he  was  weary  after  toil,  he  made 
An  image  of  his  God  in  gold  and  pearl, 
With  turquoise  diadem  and  human  eyes, 
A  wonder  in  the  sunshine,  known  afar, 
And  worshiped  by  the  King ;  but,  drunk  with  pride, 
Because  the  city  bowed  to  him  for  God, 
He  wrote  above  the  shrine :  ' '  Thus  Gods  are  made^ 
And  whoso  makes  them  otherwise  shall  die,^^ 
And  all  the  city  praised  him.  .  .  .     Then  he  died. 

Bead  here  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  his  city  had  no  wealth  to  give. 
Because  the  caravans  were  spoiled  afar. 
Because  his  life  was  threatened  by  the  King, 
So  that  all  men  despised  him  in  the  streets. 
He  hacked  the  living  rock,  with  sweat  and  tears. 
And  reared  a  God  against  the  morning-gold, 
A  terror  in  the  sunshine,  seen  afar, 
And  worshiped  by  the  King ;  but,  drunk  with  pride. 
Because  the  city  fawned  to  bring  him  back. 
He  carved  upon  the  plinth :  '^Thus  Gods  are  made^ 
And  whoso  makes  them  otherwise  shall  die.^'* 
And  all  the  people  praised  him.  .  .  .    Then  he  died. 


498  U/orl^s  of  F^adyard  I^iplip^ 

Bead  here  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  he  lived  among  a  simple  folk, 
Because  his  village  was  between  the  hills, 
Because  he  smeared  his  cheeks  with  blood  of  ewes, 
He  cut  an  idol  from  a  fallen  pine, 
Smeared  blood  upon  its  cheeks,  and  wedged  a  shell 
Above  its  brows  for  eye,  and  gave  it  hair 
Of  trailing  moss,  and  plaited  straw  for  crown. 
And  all  the  village  praised  him  for  this  craft, 
And  brought  him  butter,  honey,  milk,  and  curds. 
Wherefore,  because  the  shoutings  drove  him  mad, 
He  scratched  upon  that  log :  ' '  Thus  Gods  are  made. 
And  tvhoso  makes  them  otherwise  shall  die.-^ 
And  all  the  people  praised  him.  .  .  .    Then  he  died. 

Mead  here  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 
Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
Because  his  God  decreed  one  clot  of  blood 
Should  swerve  a  hair's-breadth  from  the  pulse's  pathj 
And  chafe  his  brain,  Evarra  mowed  alone. 
Bag- wrapped,  among  the  cattle  in  the  fields. 
Counting  his  fingers,  jesting  with  the  trees. 
And  mocking  at  the  mist,  until  his  God 
Drove  him  to  labor.     Out  of  dung  and  horns 
Dropped  in  the  mire  he  made  a  monstrous  God, 
Abhorrent,  shapeless,  crowned  with  plantain  tufts. 
And  when  the  cattle  lowed  at  twilight- time. 
He  dreamed  it  was  the  clamor  of  lost  crowds. 
And  howled  among  the  beasts :  ' '  Thus  Gods  are 

made, 
And  ivhoso  makes  them  otherwise  shall  die.^\ 
Thereat  the  cattle  bellowed.  .  .  .    Then  he  died. 

Yet  at  the  last  he  came  to  Paradise, 

And  found  his  own  four  Gods,  and  that  he  wrote; 

And  marveled,  being  very  near  to  God, 


Otl^er  l/erses  499 

What  oaf  on  earth  had  made  his  toil  God's  law, 
Till  God  said,  mocking :  * '  Mock  not.  These  be  thine. ' ' 
Then  cried  Evarra:  ''I  have  sinned!" — "[N'ot  so. 
If  thou  hadst  written  otherwise,  thy  Gods 
Had  rested  in  the  mountain  and  the  mine, 
And  I  were  poorer  by  four  wondrous  Gods, 
And  thy  more  wondrous  law,  Evarra.     Thine, 
Servant  of  shouting  crowds  and  lowing  kine." 
Thereat  with  laughing  mouth,  but  tear- wet  eyeSj 
Evarra  cast  his  Gods  from  Paradise. 

This  is  the  story  of  Evarra — man — 

Maker  of  Gods  in  lands  beyond  the  sea. 


KND   OF  VOLUME  THREE 


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Connecticut 

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